So Cold The Knight
by Asp
Summary: Michael and Kitt find their world in turmoil when they are called to testify for a defendant they're trying to put behind bars. Section 2 posted
1. The Investigation

Knight Rider characters copyright Glen A Larson  
All other characters copyright P E Cameron.  
So Cold The Night copyright 1986 London Records Ltd  
Rated: R for language and adult situations  
A/N: This fic includes a mild, non-graphic rape scene.   
I would also like to thank my wife, Tomy, for the beta read, and understanding, and Vega, for helping me get out of the corners I enjoy writing myself into.  
  
So Cold the Knight  
by Asp  
  
I watch your window  
I shake so scared  
spying form my room  
with nervous unrest  
night after night your fingers caressing  
the skin that is so fair, you slowly undress  
soon we will be together  
until then so cold the night  
~The Communards  
  
Part 1 The Investigation  
  
"Do we have enough on this guy, Kitt?" Michael was referring to the suspect they had been following for three days. The case they were on was, for them, a relatively simple one. A drug dealer, who doubled as a pimp, but used his drugs to keep his stable of girls under control. One of the girls, having kept herself as straight as possible, wanted out. Unfortunately, the overworked, understaffed, police department of Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, didn't waste two seconds of their time with her. They had much bigger fish to fry. Murderers, rapists, kidnappers, and the likes.   
  
It was a simple decision for Michael. She called, he answered. The country didn't matter to him. Nor to FLAG.   
  
What Michael Knight wanted to know from his partner, Kitt, was if they had enough evidence for a search warrant. FLAG had contacts in the region, so Kitt could therefor produce one from his printer, signed by a local judge.  
  
"Yes, Michael. I'm in the process of producing it now. The British Columbian judicial system uses a quite different warrant than what we are used to. It will take me a few minutes."   
  
Michael frowned, looking into the rearview mirror at his reflection, seeing again the deep scar along his cheek. An old scar, causing his face to take on a menacing cast. His thoughts drifted to the woman who for the past year had looked past the scar and the bravado of him, and saw the real man beneath. The woman, Secretary of State Shirley Johnstone, and he had fallen in love, deeper than Michael had ever thought possible again. It had been a decade since Stevie had died in his arms, and he had a number of casual, and intense relationships since. One of the latter giving him the disfiguring scar. But nothing since Stevie had been real. Not until Shirley. He had once again found a reason for his living, outside of his work.  
  
Kitt's voice brought him out of his reverie. "Michael, the warrant is ready now. Would you like to wait for the local authorities to arrive? This is after all, as you say, their turf."  
  
"No buddy, I want to make sure we've got everything we need before we call in the cops. Where's the transponder we planted on him say he is?" The suspects car had been bugged with a small transponder that transmitted a locator beacon that only Kitt's special equipment could pick up.  
  
"He is still on the East Side, Michael. Apparently making his rounds." The distaste was evident in Kitt's voice.  
  
Michael opened his door, stood beside the car and leaned in the open window. "Okay. I'm going in. Keep your eyes peeled." Kitt didn't even dignify the unnecessary comment with a response.  
  
The tall man walked casually to the Brownstone, taking the three porch steps in one. Stopping at the door, blocking his motion with his body, he began to expertly pick the lock. He could have had his partner do it, in less time in fact, but Michael liked being self reliant. A minute later he let himself into the handsome house.  
  
He was standing in a large two story foyer. Ivory marble floor, with matching marble tiles, used as wainscotting up to four feet from the floor. The walls were painted in a pale green, the entire ceiling a golden yellow. The colours all merged and swooned together in the mirrored hallway doors. It was extravagant, but done with class. He moved forward down the hall, his sneakers whispering on the tile. To the left was a living room, off white leather furniture, sky blue carpeting, with a raised section holding a baby grand piano. The first thing he noticed was the lid was up on the piano, and there was no dust. Who was this guy? How did a guy in such a sleazy life have the class and discernment to not only furnish a house like this; that could just be the decorator, but to obviously enjoy the contents. Michael shook his head as he went straight ahead into the kitchen. More marble, this time in greys and browns, stainless steel appliances, granite counter top, with well polished oak cabinetry.   
  
Michael started his search in this room. The kitchen is the most used room in almost very household, so most people keep their everyday stuff handy in drawers there. For most people, that would mean bills, keys, first aid kits, etcetera. For Jason Miller, their suspect, it would mean a stash of heroin, crack, whatever drugs he dished. He looked through the drawers first, then moved to cupboards. Well organised for layout, everything having a place, and everything in it's place. Glasses, dishes, pots and pans. Michael had searched behind every door thoroughly. All except one. He smiled as he thought of his almost oversight. The cabinet above the refrigerator. Nothing useful is ever stored there. The perfect place to put something you don't want accidentally found. He moved a few object d'art from the top of the fridge, the opened the doors wide. He smiled again. An ice cold smile. He hated drugs. Hated them with a vengeance. To many good lives were ruined by them. To many people damned to a life of poverty on the streets, because of sick bastards like this one. He did a quick inventory, estimating over a million dollars worth of product at street price. The cabinet was full to bursting.   
  
At long last he spoke. "Kitt, take a picture of all of this for me will you? Then scan it, give me a complete inventory." The ice in his voice made him sound harsh toward his partner. He wasn't worried about that though. They had been together for too many years for Kitt to not know how this would be affecting him.   
  
Finishing in the kitchen, he went down a small hallway to a back set of stairs. One set leading up, the other down. He chose down. More for convenience than anything else. Start at the bottom, work your way up. Then if you had to run, always a possibility, you were running with an height advantage. In the basement, he found nothing noteworthy. He started making his way up the main staircase when his commlink beeped at him. "Yeah Kitt, what is it?"  
  
"Michael, Jason Miller's car is approaching. He is exactly two point four miles away. ETA six minutes."  
  
"Thanks buddy. We've got enough now anyway. I'm just gonna make one last sweep, make sure everything is back where it belongs."  
  
"Be quick, Michael."  
  
He ignored the comment as he made his way quickly back down to the basement. Looking carefully but quickly at everything in the area, he made his way to the back staircase, climbing the stairs three at a time. At the landing, he turned toward the kitchen. As he did, he noticed a panel in the wall. It was loose a crack. He pulled it out, slowly, carefully. It came easily. It was meant to. Behind it was a large stainless steel door. A large freezer by the thermometer imbedded in the door. Hesitating for only a second, Michael pulled the door open, bracing himself for whatever he might find.  
  
It swung easily on well oiled hinges. The smell caught him immediately. He glanced inside quickly, closing the door, then pushing the panel back into place. He checked his watch. Two minutes. He moved silently back to the front hall, letting himself out the door. "Kitt, lock this for me will you?"  
  
"Done, Michael. Hurry, they're almost here."  
  
He jogged over to his car, the door swinging open automatically for him. Settling himself into the seat, Michael told Kitt to call the police.  
  
His voice worried his partner. "What is it? What did you find in there?"  
  
"Our client, Kitt. In a large walk-in freezer. I couldn't tell from what, whether she froze to death, or was shot. Just that she was dead. How long?"  
  
Kitt knew that he was being asked for an ETA for the police. "Twelve minutes."  
  
"Good. We'll wait until they get here, then we're gonna bust this guys balls. We're taking him all the way down, Kitt." As he finished his vehemency, their target pulled up in his classic Jaguar E-type. British Racing Green, long hood, sensual curves. The car had a custom lemon coloured interior. The car made Michael think of a Sprite label. The lemon and the lime, intertwined, almost as if in a dance. The car suited it's owner. Flamboyant, conflicting statements of power, class, and the obviousness that was lacking in the house, of coming from the East Side. A Lexus sedan followed behind, carrying Miller's enforcers. His bodyguards.  
  
The police arrived exactly when Kitt had said they would. Michael walked up to the first cop out of a car, handing over the search warrant, informing him of the body. The cop, a Sergeant, slid back into his car, getting immediately on the radio. The warrant looked all right, but this guy wasn't a cop, wasn't even a Canadian citizen. He wanted instructions. God knew that a case as large as this, with a suspect with as much money as this one had, everything had to be done precisely by the book. And here was this loner with a hot rod, already screwing things up. The Sergeant had known about Miller for a long time, knew his prior rap sheet, knew his business now. Problem was, there was never any way to prove it. If they got a witness, then that witness either disappeared, or just shut up. Now, grudgingly, the Sergeant had to admit, they had a case. No witnesses needed. A ton of drugs, and a corpse. That would be a twenty-five to life sentence. The radio crackled back to life, breaking his line of thought. He stepped out of the car, looking up at the man who had called him.  
  
"Mr. Knight. You obviously have some very well placed friends up here. I've just been told to have you accompany me. But, here's the game plan. We're going to execute your search warrant, acting on the premise that we have no idea what we will find. 'Kay?"  
  
"Sure. We can do that. Whatever it takes for Miller to be incarcerated. I don't care."  
  
The Sergeant didn't make another comment. Just shrugged and walked for the front door. They rang the doorbell. Waiting for an answer, he looked at the lock. It had been picked. The marks were obvious to a trained eye. Cursing silently to himself for some people's ineptitude, he grabbed his nightstick. Hammering repeatedly on the door with it, until it finally opened unexpectedly. The Sergeant was able to stop the stick from crashing into a forehead, just in time.  
  
Holding the search warrant, and his identification folder out in front of him, he barged into the front hall. He noticed none of what Michael had seen only half an hour earlier. Instead he waved his men, four other officers, into the direction he wanted them to search. Miller came walking casually down the curved, oak banistered, staircase from the second floor. He was dressed like royalty, red silk dressing gown, gold brocade shirt, black slacks, cuffed at the bottom, with triple pleats at the front of the waist. He had a tumbler of a clear liquid in front of him, carried tenderly in his right hand, his left gripping the banister. Maybe too hard, as the Sergeant noticed the knuckles turning white.  
  
"I would like to see your search warrant please. And your identification." Sergeant Dean Anderson handed both documents over silently. Watching as Miller perused them. "Sergeant Anderson, I presume that I am permitted to make a phone call while you and your men are ransacking my house?" Anderson nodded. "Good, then I will call the judge of record on this warrant, and have this entire fiasco called off."  
  
"Go ahead, Miller. Judge Ramses can't be bought by you. But hey, you go right ahead and try." Michael had tried to keep quiet, after all, this was the Sergeant's show. But the arrogant prick thought he could do whatever he wanted. It had been guys like this that kept Michael working, long after he thought it was time to quit.  
  
Miller looked down the last stair at the scarred man. He appraised him immediately. Large, muscled, but past his prime. No match for any of his men. Just another fly to be swatted out of the way. "And you are?"  
  
"Your nightmare."  
  
"Cute. But I need a name, and identification. Otherwise, you can leave my house."  
  
Michael handed over his Foundation ID. Slightly smirking as he did so. Up here, people might associate a title like Foundation for Law And Government as a part of the FBI, or whatever. And he didn't want to ruin that possible image.  
  
"And what is your interest in all of this, Mr. Knight?"  
  
"I'm the guy who put together all of the evidence that's on the search warrant. The Sergeant here is just being nice enough to let me be in on the search. You'll notice that my name is on the warrant. That it was issued to me. Which means, I'm not going anywhere," Michael finished with menace in his voice.  
  
Michael and Sergeant Anderson went into the kitchen. Two of the officers were already rummaging through the cupboards. Anderson moved the little statues from above the fridge, opened the cupboard door. A sidelong glance at Knight, then he spoke. "Nothing. It's empty."  
  
"Of course it is," replied Michael. "What did you expect? There's several cops outside their door for twenty minutes, you think they're not gonna stash everything away? Come on. Down here." They walked down the hallway he had ventured into earlier. "See this panel here? It pops open, like this."  
  
The panel slid open, Anderson studied the shining door behind. With one hand on the handle, he turned to look at Michael. "What d'you think the odds are that all the evidence is stashed in here now?"  
  
"Not easy to see it, and, it's not on any blueprints of the place. I'd say pretty good."  
  
Anderson pulled on the handle, the door swinging out. As soon as it was completely open, Anderson yelled to one of the cops, "Detain Miller! Don't cuff him yet, just make sure he doesn't go anywhere!"  
  
The officer nodded his head, walking to the living room. Michael watched him go, knowing that in LA, Miller would already be read his Miranda warning, and thrown in a squad. He figured they had a different way of doing things here. "What's the deal?" he asked Anderson.  
  
"Since we don't have an arrest warrant, we need to wait to see if we can prove that this body, one of his girls, in his freezer, in his house, was put there by him. If we can find one piece of evidence to say that, then we won't need an arrest warrant. So, we wait."  
  
Michael was beside himself. "That's ridiculous! As you just said, it's his girl, his freezer, his house. His hidden freezer in fact. What the hell are you waiting for?"  
  
"Mr. Knight, I am being very patient with you. Don't try that patience, I'm not known for it. Now, maybe that's how they do things down in LA, or even on the movies, but maybe, that's also why the LA District Attorney's office is constantly losing cases it should win. Technicalities. They're a bitch, but we have to play one hundred percent by the rules, or we don't play at all. Especially on a big case like this one. This guy's well connected, been fallootin' around with the higher society crowds. is arrest is gonna be big press. Fuckin' reporters." Anderson walked away from the freezer, pulling out his cell phone.   
  
Michael heard him ask for a crime scene unit. Knight knew better than to go into the freezer, and he figured Kitt could scan the body from this distance, ten feet. "Partner?" he whispered into the commlink. "Can you get any fingerprints off the body?"  
  
"No. Unfortunately, the cold temperatures cause the skin to prickle, making it necessary to use powder to lift the prints. I'm sorry, Michael."  
  
"That's alright, buddy. Work on it though, okay?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
An hour later, a tired group of people, all in blue windbreakers with CSU on the back arrived. This was this team's third call of the day. Already at seven hours, and this scene promised at least four more. The lead investigator, a tall red headed woman, freckled face and arms, cigarette unlit at the side of her mouth. "What's up Andy?" Michael noticed her voice was what eighty grit sandpaper would sound like if it could talk.   
  
Andy, Sergeant Anderson, explained the details to her, then introduced her as Sergeant-Detective Rotenwiler to Michael. "Rotty, or dog to my friends. For now, you can call me Detective."   
  
He laughed as he shook her hand. "Very well Detective. Anything I can do to help you here?"  
  
While they had been talking the rest of the team had begun the gruesome task of examining the body, and the immediate surroundings. One officer was drawing a detailed diagram, showing every object, in scale, in the area of the body. Another was videotaping the entire house. When the videographer was in the freezer, he cursed at the officer taking the still shots. The flash was disrupting the picture. There was yet another, a woman, inspecting the body closely, behind the ears, in the mouth, until she came to something under the nails. Using her penknife, she carefully scraped the material from under the index nail of the left hand into a small brown paper bag. The bag was folded, then taped securely, and then stapled, before it went into a ziploc evidence bag. Biological material, such as skin, blood, and even hair, can be corrupted by staying in plastic for too long. That's why the paper bag.  
  
She stood up, slowly walking over to Rotenwiler, waving the bag. "Got what looks like skin from under the nails. Could be anyone's though. It'll take a couple of weeks before the lab can give us a prelim."  
  
Michael stepped forward, eyeing the bag. Realizing the use he could be, he offered his, and Kitt's services.  
  
"You can what?" The investigator with the bag was Corporal Wendy Jones, known as Bloom County.  
  
"Bloom County?" Michael laughed. "I probably don't want to know. Okay, we go out to my car, And my partner analyzes it and we have a prelim in about ten minutes. But, and here's the great part, we can have a match in five, if we take a hair from Miller's brush, and give that to Kitt to analyze as well. All he has to do is compare microscopic strands, and we'll know for sure."  
  
"Sounds hard to believe, Mr. Knight..."  
  
"Michael, please."  
  
"Okay, Michael. We'll do it. But, I'll need to sign the evidence out of the log first." Evidence, from the moment it's gathered to the end of it's existence had to be meticulously kept track of. Every person who touched it, for what reason, and where it went. All had to be marked in a log book.  
  
Rotenwiler had gone upstairs to the bedroom to acquire the hair sample. Michael and Jones were waiting in the front hall. He led the two women, with Anderson in tow, to Kitt. Opening the door, he asked for the samples. Kitt slid out his specimen tray and Michael dropped the hair in. He then opened the bag and released a small amount of the skin particles into the tray as well. "Do your best, Kitt." The tray slid into place.  
  
The three police were still wondering what the hell was going on when Kitt spoke. "Michael, it appears on the surface that the DNA does not match closely."  
  
"Shit!" exclaimed Anderson.   
  
"I wasn't quite finished yet, Sergeant Anderson. As I was saying, on the surface, it doesn't appear to be a match, but that is because the hair supplied is not Jason Miller's. The dandruff attached to it is a perfect match to the skin's DNA. Further analyses would be needed for a one hundred percent guarantee, however."  
  
"God damned! Okay, time to arrest Miller." Anderson started walking back toward the house.   
  
Rotenwiler caught his arm, spun him back around to face her. Glancing at Michael, she said in a low voice, "Andy, we only have the say so of...of a car. You can't arrest a suspect on that basis."  
  
"Detective Rotenwiler, I am not just a car. I am the Knight Industries Two Thousand. I am, for your purposes a mobile crime unit. I can take images of fingerprints from most surfaces, analyze objects such as those I have just completed, and many other useful functions to aid you in your investigation."  
  
Michael laughed as Kitt rebuked the detective. "It's okay, Kitt. Remember, we haven't worked with this department before. They don't know anything about us." Facing the three police he continued, "but, I have to agree with Sergeant Anderson here. There's enough incriminating evidence to at least hold Miller for now. Maybe until you can verify the results of the test?"  
  
Anderson was agitated. This was one of those rare cases when you knew who the guilty party was right from the get go. Unfortunately, he had been in this business long enough to know that those were the cases that scared the Crown Attorney's Office the most. Because people did jump the gun a little too often. "Listen guys, I know what your thinking, CA's not gonna like it, it's all too fast, blah, blah. But I'm telling you, if we don't arrest him tonight, he's gonna go underground. Then we'll never find him. As far as I'm concerned, I'll be within the CCC in arresting him."  
  
"Alright," Rotenwiler said, "Lets go get him. Of course his lawyer is here now. He may put up a bit of a fight."  
  
"Not a problem. His lawyer is corporate, not criminal litigation." Anderson walked back to the house. The others followed close behind.  
  
"Mr. Jason Miller, under section 495, subsection '1a' of the Criminal Code of Canada, I am arresting you for possession of drugs for the reason of trafficking, and for Murder in the first degree. It is my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain and instruct legal council without delay. You have the right to telephone any lawyer you wish. You also have the right to free advice from a legal aid lawyer. If you are charged with an offense, you may apply to the British Columbia Legal Aid Plan for assistance." Anderson was reading Miller's right straight from the book.   
  
No wonder, Michael thought. What a mouthful.  
  
"I don't fucking need legal aid. My lawyer is right here. Nice try with the charges, but I'll have your badge, and these charges thrown out by the end of business tomorrow!"  
  
Unperturbed, Anderson continued in his monotone. "You are charged with Possession of drugs for the reason of trafficking, and for murder in the first degree. Do you wish to say anything in answer to the charge? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?" A few moments of silence as Miller glowered at Anderson. "Mr. Miller, I need an audible yes or no answer to the question. Do you understand what I have said?"  
  
"Yes, I fucking understand. Jesus Christ Gene, get these guys out of here."  
  
The lawyer, Gene Snell, a short, overweight, pompous man stood, stepping between his client and Sergeant Anderson. "Officer, I would like to see a warrant for my client's arrest."  
  
Smiling, Anderson said, "If you would have been paying attention, I don't need a warrant. As I said at the beginning, as per Section 495, subsection '1a', A peace officer may arrest without warrant a person who has committed an indictable offense or who, on reasonable and probable grounds, which is what we have here, he believes has committed or is about to commit an indictable offense. Now, sit down. We have evidence that your client committed the murder, or was at least there for her murder, and we sure as hell have enough irrefutable evidence of the drugs." Snell sat back down, frowning at his client.  
  
"Now, where was I? Oh yes. Mr. Miller, if you have spoken to any police officer or to anyone with authority or if any such person has spoken to you in connection with this case, I want it clearly understood that I do not want it to influence you in making any statement, at any time. Do you understand?" Anderson was smiling as he finished reading Miller his rights.  
  
"Yeah, asshole. I understand my rights. Now get out of my house." Miller sat obstinately in the couch.  
  
"Mr. Miller, either you stand up, or my officers will be forced to pick you up. Which will it be, sir?"  
  
"Jay, stand up, go with them. The last thing we need is for you to be charged with resisting arrest, as well." Snell tried to pull his client up to his feet.  
  
"Let go of me! Piece of shit. Fine, I'll go," he said, finally standing. "But, Gene, get me a good criminal lawyer, then get him to get me out of here. You and I both know there's bullshit flying here. Take care of it." He allowed the cuffs to be put on him by one of the officers, then walked calmly out to the waiting cruiser.  
  
Anderson addressed Miller's employees, and lawyer. "Everyone will have to leave the house. It's an official crime scene. Oh, and don't anybody leave the city. We're gonna have lot's of questions for you."  
  
"Does that apply to me as well, Sergeant?" Snell's voice almost quivered with fear.  
  
"You know better than that counselor. The only question I have for you, is how the hell you can represent such a piece of shit?"  
  
As Snell walked out of the room he answered, "we all have jobs to do, Sergeant. That doesn't mean we have to like them." With that he was gone.  
  
  
*  
  
Sylvia Twinley was seventeen. Her hair flowed down past her shoulders, glistening gold in the sunlight of San Francisco. Her life was in ruins. Young and naive, she had finally succumbed to the boyfriend her parents didn't know about. Now, two months later, she was certain. Pregnancy. It was a horrifying thought. Said boyfriend had run as soon as she told him. She knew he'd never come back. She was a bright, pretty girl, about to finish high school, ready to enter UCLA, where she had been accepted into it's history program. These dreams were gone.   
  
As she walked the streets of downtown, her mind drifted to the conversation, the disaster with her parents. They were devout Catholics, couldn't condone her prenuptial intercourse, and wouldn't let her have an abortion. Carrying the baby would destroy her life, but her parents cared more for her 'eternal soul' than her existence on earth. Tears streaked her face, but she didn't care.   
  
She wasn't aware of where she was going, until she rang the doorbell. The kindly woman entered her into the small apartment, sitting her at a Formica kitchen table, on a rickety wooden chair. She collapsed, full blown tears flowing freely now.   
  
The woman, her Aunt on her father's side, poured her a large mug of instant coffee. They had regular visits here, unbeknownst to her parents. Sylvia looked up at her aunt, thanking her for the coffee before she broke down again. Shattered.  
  
Sylvia had seen the kids living on the streets, loathed them for their beggary, a sin, she had been taught. She had often wondered what had driven them to the life. Now she knew. If she had the baby, she would be expected by her parents to work, and raise it. They would offer no help. If she had an abortion, they would force her to leave. Either way she figured she would end up on the streets.  
  
She and her aunt talked for hours, intermittently broken by the uncontrollable sobbing which possessed her. They discussed options. No, she couldn't live here. Her aunt just couldn't afford it. Nor could her aunt afford the tuition for university. She was told to have the abortion, if that's what she wanted, work for a year, live miserly, and then go to school.  
  
But, Sylvia wondered, how could she have the abortion? California law dictates the need to be eighteen. She wasn't. She would need her parents authorization, and she knew where that would lead.  
  
British Columbia, up the coast, into Canada. Their abortion laws were more flexible, plus with their government health care, there would be no cost.   
  
Sylvia broke down again. The thought of leaving everything, everyone she knew, was more than her fragile state could bear. What cruel and wicked days are these, she thought, paraphrasing Shakespeare, something she did regularly. The tears came for a long time. Too long. Her aunt had to leave for work, but yes, Sylvia could spend the night here. Tomorrow, they would talk more.  
  
After her aunt left, Sylvia walked through the apartment, rummaging through bookshelves, drawers, cupboards. She wasn't snooping, just trying to fill the hours, keep herself from crying again. In the bedroom, on the mirrored vanity, she found a picture of her mother with a tall dark haired man. He was good looking, except for a mark on the one side of his face. It looked like a huge scar. She picked up the picture, looking more closely at it. She saw her aunt was crying. She turned the frame over, saw the card stuck to the back. On it was written in messy writing, "Call if you ever need help again, Michael" Sylvia had never seen the picture before, had never, in fact been in this room prior to tonight. Without thinking, she took the card, stuffing it into her wallet. She didn't know why. Exhausted, she flopped onto the bed. Sleep overcame her fears quickly.  
  
  
She found herself on a Greyhound bus for the second day. She decided this was the true meaning of 'Hell on wheels.' It wasn't the motorcycle gangs, it was the cramped seating, non drinkable water, and horrid smells. The woman next to her was a chain smoker, but since she couldn't light up on the bus, something she complained about often, she was jittery, easily angered. Sylvia desperately wanted to move, to change seats, but there weren't many empty. It was vacation time. School had let out the week before. Three weeks after her argument with her parents. Her aunt had bought the ticket for her, and given her five hundred dollars in cash. She was a smart girl, most of the money was in her front pocket, only a few twenties in her purse. There was no return ticket, she was expected to buy that when she was done. It would be cheaper that way.  
  
Mercifully, the bus pulled off to the side at the border crossing. Everyone had to show identification. She prepared her birth certificate for inspection. As the customs officials walked down the centre of the bus, she noticed people at the front stepping off. She could feel her neighbour squirming with the need to get out and smoke. The official stood next to her, glanced at her ID. He took it from her, staring intently at it. Her heart stopped. Had her parents reported her as a runaway? She had to admit, it was likely. She would be pulled off the bus, kicking and screaming, if she had her way, then sent back home. Her ID was handed back to her with a polite smile. The guy was young, might've just wanted to know her age.  
  
Her restless neighbour had just about leapt over her when her chance came. The groans were audible from inside the bus as the driver told the smokers they were ready to leave. The smokers all trudged dejectedly back to their seats. The smell in the bus instantly worsened.  
  
Her eyes were bulging out of their sockets. Vancouver. A sprawling city, but with lush greenery everywhere. It was, by far the most beautiful place she had been. The weather was clear and she could barely see the mountains in the distance to the east, but they were there. Stark, majestic. She sighed as the realization that this trip, this unpleasant business was almost over. She and her aunt had looked up several clinics in the city, had made phone calls and received an appointment.  
  
She stepped off the bus, young beautiful, full of life. She was naive, unaware the size of bull's eye that danced brightly about her aura. The predator's moved in.  
  
"Hi there. I'm Jimmy. I've got a cab around the corner if you need a lift." He was fairly young, maybe twenty, she thought, nice friendly green eyes, pock marks on his face the only imperfection.  
  
She was surprised by the service of a cab driver, coming to the bus to offer his services. But, she had heard that Canadians were really very friendly.  
  
A firm hand pressed down on her shoulder. She looked behind her, saw the smoking woman, her neighbour for two days. "Don't you go with this hustler, little missy, "she said as she exhaled smoke. Each word caused a different pattern to appear before her mouth.  
  
"He's a taxi driver," Sylvia said, as if she was worldly enough to know the difference.  
  
The woman pointed out the glass doors of the terminal. "Them there are taxi drivers. This here's a sheister." With that, the woman grabbed her by the arm, dragging her away from the predator towards the cabs.  
  
Her appointment was for the end of business hours, the day that she arrived. She thought it would just be a case of signing some papers, be put under, and walk out an hour later. She hadn't really expected to have problems even entering the clinic. There was a large rally out front of the small building. It looked more like a house than a medical centre. A hundred people were on one side of the street, waving graphic placards, shouting chants of "Stop the killing," and "Murderers." The other side of the street was filled with people waving flags. They looked like confederation flags. A well known symbol of freedom. It almost made her laugh. After all, the confederates enslaved hundreds of thousands of Africans and Caribbean people. But their flag represented freedom. The irony struck her.   
  
She tried to make a bee line for the entrance. She was stopped no less than thirty times, by both sides. When she entered, the receptionist behind the desk reached out her hands, silently taking the armload of pamphlets she had had forced upon her. Sylvia smiled. She was here at last. She gave her name, filled out some forms, then waited in the small reception area. There were a couple of men, both looking steadfastly at their shoes, as if their laces held the answers to the universe. She heard some loud moans from somewhere upstairs. Her fear started. Her religion spouted forth in her mind. This is a sin, it kept repeating. Incessant. A chant.  
  
When her name was called, she almost bolted. The fear must have been evident on her face because the nurse gently took her arm, leading her to a room on the main floor, whispering that today was only a preliminary evaluation. She was told to undress and slip on a gown. The doctor would be a few minutes.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, a haggard woman entered the room, flopped a thin file onto the counter, then sat heavily in a chair. She introduced herself as Dr. Gina Reese, gynecologist.  
  
The examination was brief, then she was moved to another room, told it would be another short wait. She saw paddles, and monitors. She had no clue where she was. What she was doing. The fear rose and fell like the swells of the ocean, lapping at her resolve, slowly eroding it.  
  
A chubby man entered, told her he was going to perform an ultrasound to confirm how far along she was. His fingers were cold as he applied jelly to her abdomen, then pressed the small paddle to her. An image instantly formed. She was able to see the monitor, unable to discern what anything was in the picture. Until he showed her. Then she could make out the eyes, mouth, small little hands and feet. The curve of the body. She started to cry again. The baby was three months old, she was informed, barely listening. Seeing the image of her child. Everything else blocked out.  
  
She was led from the room, back to the original examination room and allowed to dress. She stepped out into the hallway, still seeing the image, unaware of her surroundings. A gentle hand took her to another room. An office. She was seated, offered a drink of water or juice. She didn't respond. A counselor began asking her; was she sure this was what she wanted, aware of the potential repercussions. Depression, pain, anguish. She was barely listening. All she knew was that these 'repercussions' were already tearing her apart. She took a breath, cleared her eyes. Willed herself strong. Yes, she was aware, was, in fact, already suffering some signs of post partum depression. Yes she was indeed certain that this was the best course of action. Was in fact, the only plausible course of action for her. Thank you. Now, when will it happen. A date was scheduled for three days away. A Friday. Eight o'clock in the morning. The counselor handed her a business card, name and three phone numbers on the front, if she needed to call at any time, and the appointment scrawled on the back. She thanked the counselor, then left. The receptionist advised exit through the rear door.   
  
The door led into an alley, straight ahead, left or right. She didn't know where she was in the city, nor where she was going. She walked straight. Halfway down the alley, a man approached her. Her eyes were fixed on him as she walked. She was ready to scream. Before she could, she was hit from behind, knocked to the ground. She tried to stand, but was held in place firmly by three hands. The fourth slid a needle in her arm, depressing the plunger. She stared in horror as the clear liquid entered he body. She collapsed minutes later.   
"Well done, Jimmy." Jason Miller smiled at the thought of the years of service this attractive girl would provide.  
  
Two years later, Sylvia had found the card in her old wallet, and called Michael Knight.  
  
*  
  
The briefing room was fairly small, cramped with people. The investigative unit included Jones, Anderson, and was headed by Josie Rotenwiler. Michael scanned the rest of the officers present. Most were in uniform, there strictly to be given their assignments. The task of all these men and women, was to bring Jason Miller to justice. His bail hearing was scheduled for that afternoon. Anderson and Michael would be in attendance. The Crown Attorney had asked. Michael had spent a furious afternoon the day before with the CA, a balding man with large eyebrows and small lips; the high forehead seemed to make his eyes even smaller than they really were. Luckily, Michael thought, he was not the one trying the case. The thought of that man, posing, trying to look dignified and honest, in front of a jury, almost brought a smile to his lips.  
  
"Mr. Knight, here will be canvassing the other prostitutes known to be under the control of Miller. When will you be doing that?"  
  
Rotty's mention of his name and question brought him back to the present. "After the hearing this afternoon. I don't think they'll be out in force this early."  
  
A few snickers around the room. "You might be surprised, Mr. Knight. These girls are forced to work twelve to fourteen hour days, so they're already out there. It's just a case of finding them this early. But, as you say, you have an appearance this afternoon. Have a report in here in the morning?"  
  
He could tell she was trying to establish his place in the investigation. She knew that without him, they wouldn't be this far, but was also aware that his methods were...spurious in her eyes. "I'll have something here before I fall asleep tonight. Okay?"  
  
"Sure. You and Anderson better get going. They're gonna want to talk to you before court."  
  
Anderson walked beside him as they traversed the corridor to the exit. "Who's car we gonna take?" There was a trace of excitement to his voice. He had not yet been in Kitt.  
  
Smiling, Michael said, "I suppose we could take yours." Seeing the crestfallen face Michael added, "but, I'd prefer mine."  
  
They walked straight for Kitt, saying nothing until they were in the car. "An impressive piece of machinery here, Michael."  
  
"Thank you, Sergeant Anderson." Kitt's voice was more than a little irritated. "But I prefer to be referred to as something more than just, 'a piece of machinery,' as I am sure you enjoy being addressed as more than just 'a sentient form of carbon.'"  
  
Michael laughed at the uncomfortable look on the sergeants face. "Don't mind Kitt, he's just a little testy this morning."  
  
"Umph. Strikes me as odd that a computer has emotions, but hell, there ain't nothin' else out there like this, is there?"  
  
Michael chuckled to himself as they wove there way through the streets to the Provincial courthouse. It always amazed him at the reluctance of some, and the almost religious acceptance of others to Kitt.  
  
  
The courtroom looked the same as any of a number that Michael had been in. It was the dress of those present that confused him. The lawyers wore robes like that of the judge. The defense to the judge's right, the prosecution, to his left, closer to the jury. That too, was different. He was used to the defendant being close to the jury's booth.  
  
The judge, Harold T. Ramses, grey haired with intense blue eyes, scowled at the courtroom, emphasizing the large jowls on his face. "This is strictly a formality hearing, on the case of bail. My understanding is that the Crown does not wish to allow the defendant to post. Arguments?" His glare moved to his left at the prosecutor, Jennifer Wilson.   
  
Michael had met her that morning, and immediately been drawn to look at the long legs and green eyes. She was attractive, definitely. Capped with brunette waves of hair, she was almost perfect to look at. Until she spoke. The hostility held within was incredible.  
  
Now, that hostility was projected at the defendant. As she stood, walking to the podium, her eyes never left Miller. Sorting her notes, the eyes focused on Ramses, full intensity. "Your Honour, Mr. Miller is known to make his living from crime. His vast network of prostitutes, drug dealers, money laundering fronts, and loan sharks, provides him with a very handsome income in excess of one million dollars per year. No reasonable bail rate is possible with this high of an income. Nor, do we believe that the court should accept illegally accumulated funds. It could prove to corrupt the court, Your Honour."  
  
"Miss Wilson," Ramses boomed. "I will decide what will, and what will not corrupt this courtroom! I will gladly remind you of that fact. Further arguments?" His look challenged her to say yes.  
  
She did. "Your Honour, I understand that you decide what is in the best interest of the court. I am just trying to assist you in making the most educated decision you can. To aid in this, I wish to inform you of the defendant's character. This is a man who treats women as slaves, capturing them, drugging them, forcing himself upon them, then when they have no moral self worth left, he demands they sell their bodies. For him. This is a man, who canvasses schools. Not High schools, Your Honour, but grade schools. He, and his employees canvass these schools to sell drugs. Cocaine, heroin, marijuana, ecstasy. Whatever these children want, and can afford. It is known to our office that he starts these transactions at discounted rates, then, as the children become more addicted, increases the cost until it is prohibitive. This is a man..."  
  
"Objection Your Honour." Snell was on his feet. "The prosecution is trying my client here and now. As you know, this is neither the time nor the place for these arguments. Also, Your Honour, if the prosecution knows all of these, why is my client not charged with them? If there was proof, there would be charges. The Crown Attorney's office has not laid these charges, as of this moment, nor have they given any indication that they are going to. These statements are prohibitive to the court."  
  
"As are yours, Mr. Snell." Ramses' scowl focused on the defense table, then shifted to Wilson. "But, what you say has merit. Miss Wilson, if your office 'knows' all of this, why have charges not been laid?"  
  
She was nettled, the look on her face gave it away. "Your Honour, as you have known, through your many years of experience, both as a magistrate, and a defense attorney, knowledge does not constitute proof. We believe that through the course of our investigation for the crimes which the defendant is being tried, that we will divulge enough evidence to bring him to justice for these other crimes. But, Your Honour, we do have this knowledge, and enough evidence to provide to substantiate our claim. The defendant is not a man who should be allowed to roam free." Sitting down, she looked at Michael and Anderson, then gave the smallest hint of a smile.  
  
Ramses looked back to the defense table. "Mr. Snell? Rebuttal?"  
  
"Thank you, Your Honour. In all honesty, I cannot imagine why we are here today." Ramses' eyebrows raised. Quickly, Snell continued. "Yes, there was a body found in my client's house. Found, in an illegal search of the premises. Found, after the house had been broken into by one of the prosecutions investigative team, without a search warrant. How could he have one? He is a citizen of the United States. He is not a law enforcement officer, nor a licensed peace officer in this province. This means, that he could not have acquired a warrant to search Mr. Miller's property. But, it was a copy of a warrant, issued to Mr. Knight, that was shown to me that day. It is that unlawfully acquired warrant which brings my client before you today. We move that these charges be dropped by the prosecution Your Honour."  
  
"Mr. Snell. Did you happen to notice the judge's signature on that warrant?" The tone was fierce. Ramses was obviously implying something. Only Michael knew what.  
  
"Umm, no. Your Honour."  
  
"It was mine," Ramses' voice echoed throughout the court room. "Mr. Knight, and the Foundation for Law And Government are well known to me. They are also well known to many police forces to the south of our border, including the FBI and the Secret Service. You have played this card very poorly, Mr. Snell.  
  
"I am going to set bail at a prohibitive rate. Before you argue with me Miss Wilson, it will be prohibitive, and the funds will not be kept by the court. They will go to charities to help those people whom have been hurt by Mr. Miller's actions. Bail is set at two million dollars, payable by certified cheque, bank draft, or cash. Of course, cash would be impossible for a legal businessman, wouldn't it Mr. Miller?" Ramses swung his gavel before there could be any more argument.  
  
*  
  
After leaving the court house, Michael drove to the east side of the city. It struck him as odd that every major city he had ever visited had a section like this. Dark, pervasive. Prostitutes and drug dealers shared the streets, each staking out their own territory. Their customers drove up to them, only opening their windows when stopped, then closing them immediately. Occasionally a hooker would get into one of the cars, but another would take her place before the first one left. Vancouver's east side was a busy place. Over half of it was owned by Miller.  
  
Michael parked Kitt on a side street, walking back to the main drag. The shining lights of strip joints and adult video stores beckoned to the men walking with hands in pockets, heads down. Michael ignored all of this, instead focussing his attention on the women. He needed information. Damning, information. The problem would be how to extricate it from these women. He knew they were scared, drugged, and alone. He also knew that this was their only world now, and that they would be adverse to leave it.   
  
The thought hit him. He walked directly for a woman who looked to be in her early twenties from a distance. Long blonde hair, short spandex skirt, barely covering her ass, and a cotton halter top. Closer, he saw that she was probably no older than sixteen.  
  
"Hey sweetness, how'sabout a little romp?" Her words were slurred, slow, and not very interested.  
  
"Sorry, dear. Hey, did you know Sylvia Twinley? She wasn't much older than you, worked in Miller's stable?" Michael showed the girl the picture he had received from Corporal Jones, Sylvia dead.  
  
Fear and confusion danced in the girl's eyes. She glanced over her shoulder to an alleyway, dark and uninviting. Michael figured the pimp was hiding in there.   
  
He walked away from the girl, making it look like he was leaving, then doubled back, sidling against the wall. "Kitt?" he whispered into his commlink.  
  
"Yes, Michael."  
  
"You see the alley I'm about ten feet away from? Can you block the back end of it? I've got a guy in there I'm gonna have to have a talk with."  
  
"Give me two minutes, and I'll be there, Michael." The sound of the car starting came through the commlink as the last words were spoken.  
  
Waiting, Michael watched the girl he had spoken to. She gave no indication that she knew he was still there. Street smart self preservation. When he figured Kitt would be coming into position, he ran to the corner of the alleyway. The man was exactly where Michael figured he would be. Leaning against a dumpster, cigarette glowing in his mouth. He startled as Michael ran around the corner, then recovered quickly, pulling a knife. Michael saw Kitt pull up behind the dumpster, effectively blocking an escape route.  
  
"Wha' the fuck you want?!"  
  
"Ah, the eloquence of street vernacular," Michael laughed. "Why don't you put down your knife, and you and I can have a nice little chat about your boss. Miller."  
  
Confusion and panic rolled the pimps eyes in his head. Then they turned wild as he came to his inevitable conclusion. The wrong conclusion. He lunged with the knife yelling, "Fuckin' pig, stick ya, fuckin' pig!"  
  
Michael easily stepped away from the lunge to his left, pivoting on his left foot he brought his right hand down like a blade on the assailants wrist. As the knife dropped, Michael grabbed the same wrist with his left hand, pivoting his body further, pulling his attackers arm up and over his shoulder. The man was on his back, wind knocked out of him from the flip Michael had performed.  
  
"Now, as I said, you and I are going to have a nice little chat about Miller." The pimp saw nothing but cold death reflected back at his eyes.  
  
  
"Here's my report, Dog. Want a brief overview?"  
  
Detective Rotenwiler looked up from her desk, glanced at the thick report from Michael, sighed leaning back into her chair, and rasped, "yeah. Please. My eyes are starting to bug from so much reading. But not here. Let's go down the street to the local hangout."  
  
The local hangout turned out to be a Scottish bar, rich with wood, kilts hanging on the walls, plaids of every imaginable combination of colours. Televisions hung everywhere, and it was packed. Michael's jaw dropped when he saw what was playing on every tv in the place.  
  
"Shit, sorry, I forgot it was Smurf night. Let's see if we can get a booth." Rotty smiled up at him as she saw the slack jaw. "What, never heard of the Smurf game?"  
  
Startled, he looked down at her. "No, wha'? The Smurf game? No, I've never heard of it."  
  
Sitting in a booth, Michael facing the front door, he watched the rest of the patrons as he slowly sipped his beer. Every few seconds, every person in the bar sucked back a shooter. Many were already close to falling over. Some already had. He could see taxi's starting to line up out the front. "What the hell are the rules to this game?"  
  
She smiled, looking over her shoulder. "You ever watch the Smurf's?" When he nodded, she continued, "Okay, whenever you hear any derivative or version of the word smurf, you shoot an ounce of whatever kills ya. The object of the game is to be the last standing at the end of the half hour."  
  
Michael was laughing so hard his eyes were watering. He remembered watching the show when it first came out with friends and their kids. It seemed like every second word had a smurf in it. "And of course, all the taxi companies know this, so they put a bunch of drivers out in front. This bar must make a killing on these nights."  
  
There was another clamour as more shots were tossed back, the glasses being banged back onto wood. "Nope. Not really. You pay twenty bucks to play, and drink as much as you can. At an average of two bucks per ounce, and the fact that most people drink between ten and twenty ounces before their done, it's kind of a loss. But, it keeps us coming here on other nights, when this place would normally be slow."  
  
Michael shook his head in wonder. It made good business sense in a way. Just who thought up this crazy game? "Okay, back to business. I conversed with one of Miller's pimps this evening. He's now sitting in one of your jails in a private cell. His name is Jimmy Smart, or so he says. I asked him about Sylvia, and I hit the jackpot. This was the guy that followed her from the time she got off the bus. She went to an abortion clinic, then escaped out a back door into an alley to avoid demonstrators. Our friends Jimmy and Miller found her in the alley, abducted her, and pumped her full of heroin. Jimmy says that Miller then took her to one of his houses on the east side, and kept her tied up and drugged for two weeks. During that time, he raped her in every way imaginable. After that two weeks, she was released, completely addicted to drugs, and put to work. Six months later, she had a baby. Miller took it. Jimmy is positive it's still alive. If so, Rotty, I've got to find it." The plaintive tone of his voice brooked no discussion of the matter.  
  
"I'll read the report, Michael. And, we'll try to help you find the baby. It would be what, a year and a half old? We know of a few places to look." Resting her hand on top of his, she added, "We'll help."  
  
*  
  
Michael woke in a cold sweat, eyes dancing in his head. He had dreamed of a baby, addicted to drugs, crying constantly in a dilapidated house. In his mind, he was certain it was a crack house. He shivered, shaking off the images. Walking across the floor of his motel room, he stepped into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Steam immediately started filling the small room. After his shower, he toweled off, sitting naked on the bed. He needed to talk to someone. Picking up the phone, he dialed Washington DC.  
  
"Shirley Johnstone, speaking," came the cool voice attached to the woman he loved.  
  
"Hey, Hon. Just calling to see how you're doing."   
  
"No you're not, Michael. I can tell by your voice that something is wrong. What is it?" Her voice was soft, consoling him before he even had a chance to spell out his grief to her.  
  
He found it hard to express these types of feelings, that he had always held to himself. Somehow though, through the year and a half they had known each other, Shirley was able to get him to tell her things, he had never told anyone before, not even Stevie.   
  
"This case I'm working on - a girl called, she was the niece of a friend of mine. She came up here to Vancouver to have an abortion, then was abducted, basically tortured, and killed. She was killed _after_ she called me for help, Shirl. I can't help thinking that in some way, I'm responsible for her death." His voice wa catching in his throat when he finished.  
  
"Michael, you can't hold yourself responsible for other people's actions. You know that. Yes, she was taken advantage of, and she called you, then she was killed. But, that doesn't mean that it was because of you that she was. This case has made all the major papers down here, and from what I've gathered, in the business that she had been forced into, there were numerous reasons that she could have been killed. Only one of them was you."  
  
"She had the baby, Shirl. I have to find it now." There was a knock on his door. He tried ignoring it, but it persisted, getting heavier. Grabbing a robe, throwing it over his shoulder, he said into the phone, "Hon, can you hold on a minute? Someone's at the door."  
  
Closing the robe about his torso, he strode to the door. Opening it, he was shocked to see George Snell. Before Michael could say a word, Snell said, "It's a subpoena, for you to testify for the defense at the pretrial hearing." Snell left without another word, leaving Michael in the open doorway, the wind catching the bottom edges of his robe.  
  
Shivering, dumbfounded, Michael closed the door, sat on the bed, and picked up the phone. Sitting in shock with the phone to his ear, he heard Shirley saying, "Michael? What is it? What's happened?"  
  
"I don't fucking believe it. I've just been served to testify at the pretrial. For the defense."  
  
"You had better go, check in with the investigators, let them know. Why would they ask you to testify for them? They must know you'll be a hostile witness to the defense?"  
  
"Because," Michael said, realization dawning on him, "somehow Miller knows that I was in the house, before the police carried out my search warrant. They're going to attack my credibility, try to get the whole case thrown out."  
  
"That's an awfully large gamble for them to play, Michael. That would work better at a trial in front of a jury, don't you think?"  
  
"I don't think Miller wants to let it get that far, if he can help it. I'd better let you go, Shirl. I'm gonna have to talk to Rotty about this." Pausing, he added, "thanks Hon. You're always there for me when I need you. I hope you know it's appreciated."  
  
"No need to thank me, Michael. I love you. You know that." Putting a smile in her voice she added, "Now go!"  
  
Michael walked into the briefing room, shaking hands with several officers, as he made his way to the front where Rotty, Andy, and Bloom County were hovering over a stack of papers. As he approached them, Rotty looked up and said, "We've got a meeting with Wilson in an hour. Apparently you have some high placed friends. Somebody called Wilson twenty minutes ago, and she called us. What the hell's going on Michael?"  
  
Pulling out the papers, he quietly handed them to the detective.  
  
In disbelief, she looked up at him, growling, "What the fuck?" Handing the papers over to the others, she stood silently, glaring at Michael. "You're working for the defense now?"  
  
"Shit no! That bastard Snell served me those this morning. If I was working for him, he wouldn't have to serve me, would he."  
  
"We'd better move our meeting up a bit with Wilson," Andy said, nervously glancing between the two posturing figures.  
  
Wilson met them in a conference room, elegantly appointed with a large mahogany oval table They sat in the comfortable cloth chairs, Wilson at the head, Rotty to her right, with Corporal Jones beside her; Michael and Andy on her left. She took the offered subpoena from Michael, scanned it and said, "This is what Ms. Johnstone talked about."  
  
Confused, Michael looked at the prosecutor. "You spoke to Shirley? When?"  
  
"She called my office immediately after she spoke with you, Mr. Knight. She had a couple of interesting ideas, which I believe we are going to use. Oh, and before you start to worry, we're keeping you on the investigative team. Your's, and your car's talents are too important to pass up. As to what Ms. Johnstone and I discussed, she is going to be called as a rebuttal witness to their character assassination of you. She'll be here on Monday morning for the pretrial."  
  
Michael sat in mute shock as the others looked in confusion between himself and the prosecutor. Finally, Andy asked the question. "Who is this Shirley Johnstone?"  
  
Standing, resting his fists on the table for support, he replied, "The United States Secretary of State. My...girlfriend."  
  
  
*  
  
Sylvia panicked when she finally came to. Her hands and feet were tied to four posts of a bed, her clothes nowhere to be seen. There was a bag held on a stand above her head to her left. From it ran a hose containing a clear liquid attached to a needle in her arm. Her thoughts were all convoluted. She couldn't think straight, other than escape. She fought at her binds, struggling until she cried out in pain. The door opened and a man came in that looked familiar to her. Then another walked in, an evil lascivious grin on his face.  
  
"Well Jimmy, it looks like our newest recruit has finally awakened. We can start her training any time now."  
  
"Jason, she's pregnant. What the Hell are we gonna do with a pregnant kid?"  
  
"You forget that some of our clientele enjoy women in that state. God knows why." Jason Miller said with a smile. "Go call the boys in, we'll get her started now. I'll get started while we're waiting."  
  
Sylvia couldn't believe it. The man dropped his pants, climbing on top of her. She wanted to scream, but found her voice caught in her throat. Never had she imagined this fate for herself. She gave up the fight, realizing the futility of it. When the first man climbed off of her, she noticed many more outside the door to her room. She cried, tears streaking her face as man after man attacked her.  
  
For two weeks Sylvia had been kept tied, fed only through the intravenous tube, which also fed her the drugs. Every day, her body was attacked. Her mind formed a shell for her to hide in after the third day. That shell felt almost like home now. Home is where her mind took her during these 'visits', to the good days with her parents, her boyfriend, and her aunt.  
  
Her thoughts, as non coherent as they were, were broken by Jimmy entering her room. He sat on the bed, stroking her face, whispering endearments to her. Telling her she was to be his whore. That he would treat her well, so long as she gave him no trouble. She feebly nodded her head, and he started to undo the ropes holding her body in place. She tried to sit upright, quickly, but blacked out before she was halfway up. Jimmy laughed at her, informing her to take it slowly, that the new girls all had problems when they were first released. She finally managed a sitting position, swinging her legs off the bed, feet touching the cold wood floor. Her eyes wouldn't focus on anything, her body shaking. Finally, gathering her breath she asked for a bathroom. Jimmy grabbed her by the arm, helping her to stand, and led her through the door, across a dimly lit room, finally depositing her on a toilet. He closed the door as he left her there. Sitting there, she realized just how bad of a position she was in. She felt more filthy than ever in her life. Looking at the bathtub, she decided that she would force herself into the shower, to stand in it for as long as possible. She started the water flowing. No sooner had the water turned hot than the door flew open, Jason standing there scowling at her.  
  
"What the fuck you doin', bitch."  
  
Scared again, knowing the ferocity of this man, she looked down, away from his eyes, saying, "I just wanted to clean up. To..." thinking fast she concluded, "to smell better for you."  
  
Staring at her, an angry look on his face, his mouth opened to say something when a hand came down on his shoulder. Jimmy came into the doorway saying, "it's okay, Jason. She's ready. You know it. Let her get cleaned up, then I'll take her out to the street, get her new career started."  
  
"She ain't fuckin' ready yet man. Look at her, yeah she's scared, but she can still think. That ain't no good m'man. Give her another week on the bedpan, then she'll really know her defeat."  
  
"Jason, you told me she goes in my stable, right? You ever had problems with any of my girls? No. So trust me on this one. I can handle her."  
  
"You sure you're not just a little smitten by your new whore?" Miller asked in a dead voice. "'Cause if she gives me any problems, she dies, and so do you." He walked out of the small bathroom, storming across the hard floor, and out the front door of the house.  
  
"C'mon, I'll help you take a shower. You know you can't stand on your own for that long." She watched in horror as Jimmy stripped his clothes off, his erection already started, and he took her hand and stepped into the stream of water.  
  
*  
  
  
Michael visited Jimmy Smart in the jail. Since he was the one to apprehend him, it was decided that he would also be the one to offer him the deal. They were sitting in a small, light green painted room with a metal table and two chairs bolted to the floor.  
  
"Okay, Jim, here's the deal. The police aren't going to lay any charges against you so long as you follow these requirements to the letter. First, you're gonna convince Miller that you testify on his behalf at the trial. Second, that when you're cross examined by the prosecution, you let slip a few pertinent facts, before they're asked. That's important, before you're asked, you say something incriminating. Third, after you've testified, you'll be put into protective custody, but at that point, you have to inform the investigators of everything you know. Otherwise," Michael let the thought hang in the quiet room.  
  
"Otherwise," Jimmy said, catching on. "I'll be released from protective custody, and killed by Miller. Shit man, if he knows I'm here now, he'll kill me. He's already wanted to do it, just he can't afford the heat that would bring on him. I told you that."  
  
"Well, you're just going to have to keep on hoping that you'll live. Otherwise, they're gonna charge you with accessory, trafficking prostitutes and drugs, and a whole slew of other charges. You'll be in prison til you're an old man. Just remember Jimmy, you're a good looking guy. You won't be after a few years in prison." Michael stood, putting his hands in his pockets. "So, we got a deal? You'll be outta here in twenty minutes."  
  
Scared of both options, he mumbled, "yeah. We got a deal man."  
  
  
"Michael, they've released Jimmy Smart? Why?" They were following Smart from a discreet distance.  
  
"Kitt, I guess it's a strategy Wilson wants to use. Personally I think she's watched too many Perry Mason shows, not enough Law & Order. These kinds of games don't usually work out to well."  
  
"Then why would an experienced attorney try it? I just don't understand the rationale, Michael."  
  
"I can't say I do either, buddy."  
  
Noting something in Michael's voice, Kitt asked, "Is something wrong, Michael? Your vitals and voice tell me you're feeling fear. What is it?"  
  
Smiling at the voice modulator, Michael pushed the 'Auto' button, sat sideways in his seat and started telling Kitt his fears. "This trial, for the first time is going to question us. Our effectiveness. Our legality. It's going to call into question everything we've ever done. I just don't know how I'm gonna react to that. But, I'll tell you. My reaction right now is fear. Fear that because of us, Miller will be released. Fear that the Foundation will be forced to shut us down. You, and this job, are my entire life. And Shirley, now. Nothing else matters, except the good we do, and all that may come apart because of this trial. And, I found out that now Shirley has thrown herself into the ring."  
  
"What do you mean? What could she possibly have to do with this case?"  
  
Sighing, Michael said, "Kitt, she called Wilson right after she got off the phone with me and told her she would testify on my behalf. As a rebuttal witness. I'm a little worried about her safety, though I understand she'll be escorted by Secret Service officers. Still, it was only a year and a half ago that The Movement tried everything to kill her, and now, because of me, she's right back in the crosshairs."  
  
"Michael," Kitt said as softly as he could, "Shirley is one of the strongest women I have ever known. I also know how much she loves you, and if she thinks that she can help you, she will." With some sternness to his voice, Kitt concluded, "No matter what you, or I, do or say." 


	2. Pretrial

"Alright, Mr. Snell, you requested this early date for the preliminary hearing. Now, I have a few questions for both of you," Ramses said as he leaned forward, giving them a menacing look from atop his bench. "First, Mr. Snell, why are you fighting probable cause?"  
  
Snell stood slowly, glancing over at his client dressed in a thousand dollar suit. "Your Honour, the defense believes the evidence found was unlawfully obtained. Without said evidence, the prosecution does not have a case against my client."  
  
Ramses roared from the bench, filling the court room with echoes, "I have already told you that Mr. Knight was given a lawful search warrant by me! Are you questioning _my_ authority to issue warrants?!"  
  
"No, Your Honour. What we intend to show during our evidentiary proceedings, is that Mr. Knight unlawfully conducted a search before the police carried out your warrant. If this occurred, even this court must find that there is no probable cause." He sat back down.  
  
"I will allow you to present your witnesses, which brings me to my second point, Mr. Snell. Why have you called one of the prosecutions investigative members to testify on your clients behalf?"  
  
Seated, looking up from the briefings set in front of him, he replied, "Mr. Knight's testimony is crucial to our point, Your Honour. We felt it would be in my client's best interest to not cross Mr. Knight, but to conduct a direct examination instead. We feel it will give more weight to his testimony, though we ask that he be treated as an hostile witness."  
  
Glowering more deeply, Ramses said, "Counsel, you know that in my court, you are to stand when addressing the bench. I take it as a personal affront when a lawyer does not do this. Once more, and I will find you in contempt. Clear?" With a nod from Snell, he continued. "As to your treatment of Mr. Knight as an hostile witness, I will not permit it. You made your bed by calling him, now you and your client, will have to sleep in it."  
  
"Next point of order." This time Ramses' glare moved to Wilson at the prosecution table. "Ms. Wilson, I understand you have a rebuttal witness scheduled for after Mr. Knight's testimony?"  
  
Standing, and briskly walking to the podium, Wilson replied, "Yes, Your Honour, we have."  
  
Shaking his head, Ramses continued booming, "Ms. Wilson, there is no name on your witness list labeled as a rebuttal witness. Can you explain this?"  
  
"May we approach the bench, Your Honour?" Ramses waved both attorneys forward. Once there, Wilson started again. "Your Honour, this case is getting an unusual amount of publicity, and for security purposes, I have been asked not to disclose the name, or title of our witness."  
  
Snell, feeling an advantage said, "asked by whom? Your honour, defense is entitled to know the names of all witnesses, as you are aware. This is strictly a cheap method for the prosecution to pull the wool over my clients eyes."  
  
"I have to agree with defense counsel, Ms. Wilson. Who requested you to withhold information?"  
  
"The United States Secret Service, Your Honour. Unfortunately, I am not permitted to divulge the witnesses name to you in open court. If you would like to go to your chambers, I can tell you there, Sir."  
  
Shaking his head, Ramses said, "no, Ms. Wilson. I believe you can tell us here. Defense counsel will not repeat the name. Not even to your client. Understood?" The question was aimed at Snell, who nodded in the affirmative. "Good. Carry on, Ms. Wilson. Who is it the Secret Service is trying to protect?"  
  
Glancing sideways at Snell, she said softly, "Shirley Johnstone, Your Honour."  
  
Eyes wide open, Ramses exclaimed, "Sec State Johnstone? What the Hell does she have to do with this case?"  
  
"She is a personal friend of Mr. Knight's, Your Honour. If defense counsel tries to damage Mr. Knight's credibility by character assassination, Ms. Johnstone will rebut that."  
  
"Fair enough, counsel." He waved the two lawyers back to their tables.  
  
"Opening statements are to be less than fifteen minutes, after which we will recess for one half hour. The floor is yours, Ms. Wilson."  
  
As she approached the podium, notes in hand, she noticed the judge lean back in his chair, hands rested behind his head. Taking a breath, she readied herself. This was by far the biggest case she had ever worked, and the short time span from the bail hearing to this pretrial made it hard for her to be as prepared as she would have liked.   
  
"The prosecution intends to show the court the evidence gathered from the crime scene, starting with the autopsy results of the victim, followed by DNA matching results from skin samples found under the victims nails, with flakes of skin found in the defendants hair brush. Further, we will show the court the drugs, and drug paraphernalia taken from the defendants home during the search, and we will also show the court proof positive that the victim of this crime, murder in the first degree, was one of the defendants prostitutes. We will show motive for the killing of this young girl. We will show proof that the defendant abducted the victim two years ago, forcing her into a life of drugs and prostitution. We will show, Your Honour, full probable cause for this case to be held over for trial. Thank you." Sitting, she looked straight at the defendant, saw him glaring at her, and felt a shiver run up the back of her neck.  
  
Snell slowly, ponderously, made his way to the podium, a sheaf of papers held in front of him. Waving them in the air, he began, "Your Honour, I had a prepared statement to make. Ms. Wilson has saved me the job." With that he threw the sheaf onto his table where they scattered. "The prosecution states that it will prove many things. Unfortunately for the Crown, their proof is all circumstantial. The Crown has no proof that my client abducted the victim, nor that Mr. Miller forced her into anything. The DNA matching that the Crown offers is only a preliminary report, hardly proof of anything. What we will show the court, is that the prosecution does not have probable cause. What they have are a lot of questions, with them trying to force the answers out of a man who does not have any to give. My Client. Thank you, Your Honour."  
  
Ramses sat forward, leaning over his bench again. "We will recess for a half hour, then I will hear the prosecutions first witness."  
  
  
"Devon, Bonnie, glad you're hear." Michael had waited for them at the airport, where they would walk through customs. "Shirley's already here, arrived several hours ago, in fact. The Secret Service whisked her off to a hotel close to the court."  
  
Walking stiffly from sitting for so long, his knees still aching from non movement, Devon reached an arm around Michael's shoulder. "Relax, my boy. We have a great deal to discuss, and little time with which to do it, unfortunately. Come, take us to the court house. I want to watch the flow of this trial, see if I can deduce where it's headed."  
  
Michael grabbed their bags, leading them to Kitt. Once they were under way, Bonnie spoke. "I'm worried about this case, Michael. If this attorney starts asking you questions about Kitt, what are you going to do? You can't exactly give any details about him. He's still rated as a top classified prototype. To have him exposed in a court of law, would be devastating."  
  
"I know, Bonnie. But I can't exactly lie on the stand either, can I? And, Canadian courts don't have a fifth amendment to hide behind, not that it would be an eligible claim. All I know is that I'm going to try to keep the testimony steered away from Kitt, and his functions. I think the judge will allow me some leeway on this."  
  
"Bonnie," Kitt said, "I have thought a great deal about this, and if it becomes necessary, I will testify. If it will assist in the incarceration of Jason Miller for the death of that poor girl, then I am willing to take whatever risks are necessary."  
  
"Kitt, unfortunately, it isn't for you to decide. The Foundation's Board of Director's has expressly denied you permission to testify in this hearing." Devon took a breath, knowing that the tempers were about to soar. "They believe that the defense attorney, Snell, I believe, is trying to cloud the issues with your existence. That if they can divert the focus of the trial from the murder of that poor girl, to you, the car of the future, then the judge will find in his favour."  
  
"That's ridiculous, Devon, "Michael retorted. "For one thing, Judge Ramses knows about Kitt. He was our contact up here, and he's the judge on this case. He won't do the actual trial, but he is doing this one. So how can the existence of Kitt cloud the issues?"  
  
"Reporters, Michael," Bonnie began. "If Kitt's systems become public knowledge, and enough confusion can be created from it, by the defense, then a finding of probable cause may become unpopular enough for the judge to want to dismiss it."  
  
"Bonnie, judges up here aren't like ours. They're not elected to the bench, they're appointed. A provincial judge is appointed by the premier of the province. Then he's there until he either retires, or dies, basically. These are lifetime appointments. The judge doesn't have to worry about a bit of bad press caused by one of his rulings." Shaking his head, Michael added, "If it comes down to it, Kitt will testify. We've already discussed it. You have to understand, guys, we're fighting for our lives here. Not just for justice."  
  
The rest of the drive to the court house was in silence.  
  
  
As they entered the busy courtroom, Bloom County had just given oath. Michael, Devon, and Bonnie seated themselves behind the prosecution table, in the front row.  
  
Jennifer Wilson, dressed in a navy blue pant suit, with a pale yellow silk blouse under the jacket, matching pale yellow heels on her feet, walked to the witness stand, and began her case.  
  
"Could you tell the court your full name, and rank please?"  
  
"Corporal Wendy Jones, Vancouver Police Services, I'm the head of forensics on this case." Her responses were just as crisp as the questions being asked.  
  
Wilson looked from the judge to the defense table. "Your Honour, will the defense stipulate Corporal Jones' qualifications as a pathologist?"  
  
"We do not, Your Honour. We know nothing of this witness, other than what we have been told in the briefings."  
  
"Mr. Snell, perhaps if you visited my court more often, you would know the witness, but, since you do not, we will have to force Ms. Wilson to draw it out for us. Continue, counsel."  
  
Shaking her head, she turned back to Jones. "Could you please inform the court of your qualifications as a forensic pathologist."  
  
Jones, dressed in rumpled dress clothes, with a stained white lab coat over top, sat straighter in the wood chair. "I spent two years in general medical school at the University of Toronto, then an additional two years studying pathology. I worked with the Toronto Police Force for five years as a forensic pathologist, and moved here to Vancouver three years ago. That gives me seven years experience."  
  
"Thank you, Corporal. Does that satisfy the defense of the witnesses qualifications?" She glanced at Snell, who gave a barely audible "Yes."  
  
"Corporal Jones, could you describe to us what you found when you entered the crime scene?"  
  
"Objection, Your Honour?" Snell was immediately on his feet.  
  
Ramses stared hard at him. "On what grounds, Mr. Snell?"  
  
"Your Honour, there has been no evidence given that where the body was located, was in fact a crime scene. To call it such is prejudicial against my client."  
  
"He has a point, Ms. Wilson. Rebuttal?"  
  
"Your Honour, where there is a corpse that has died of unnatural causes, the location of said corpse is generalized as the crime scene. And in this case, Your Honour, we can prove that the location in question, was, in fact, the crime scene."  
  
Ramses pondered the points for a moment. "I agree with defense counsel, to call the location of a corpse, before evidence has been submitted, a crime scene, is prejudicial to the defendant. Objection sustained."  
  
"Very well, Your Honour. Corporal Jones, could you please explain to the court what you found when you entered the location of the dead body?"  
  
"What I found upon entering the freezer in the defendants house..."  
  
"Objection, argumentative," Snell said.  
  
"Overruled. The freezer is in your client's house, Mr. Snell. Continue, Corporal."  
  
"What I found was the body of the victim, a Sylvia Twinley, of San Francisco, California."  
  
"And could you tell at the time what the cause of death was?"  
  
"There were lacerations on the victims face and neck, and bruising that would be consistent with strangulation, but at the time, no, I could not ascertain a definitive cause of death."  
  
Wilson was starting to warm to her subject, more emotion seeping into her voice, a more relaxed body language in her movements. "When could you ascertain the cause of death, Corporal?"  
  
"During the autopsy, the next day."  
  
Wilson walked to the prosecution table where Andy handed her a document. Handing a copy to Snell, then one to the bailiff to give to the judge, Wilson said, "Your Honour, the Crown wishes to present the pathologist report as Crown exhibit 'A'"  
  
Ramses examined the sheet, then looked at Snell. "Objections?" Snell shook his head. "Very well, Ms. Wilson, it is so entered."  
  
"Corporal Jones, could you please read from your report, what your finding of cause of death was?"  
  
Jones poured over the ten page document, then on the seventh page found what she was looking for. Not that she needed to, she knew this document word for word, front to back. But courtrooms were for show. "I found the cause of death to be starvation and cold."  
  
"Could you explain what you based these conclusions on?"  
  
"Of course. The victim had absolutely nothing in her intestinal tract. Her stomach was empty. When we eat food, there are remains in us for several days. There was nothing in Sylvia Twinley's, therefor she had not eaten for a minimum of six days. That's what led me to the conclusion of starvation. When I examined the victims heart and lungs, I found crystallization in her lung tissue that could only have gotten there by breathing in an extremely cold environment for a long period of time. Then there was the position of the victims body at the scene. She was huddled in a fetus position, naked. That told me she was trying to retain some body heat."  
  
"Objection, speculation."  
  
"Your Honour, Mr. Snell agreed that Corporal Jones is a qualified forensic pathologist, which means he agrees that HER speculation has merit." Wilson was shooting ice lances from her eyes at the defense table.  
  
Ramses nodded his head once, then said, "Overruled. Ms. Wilson, please keep your temper in check in my courtroom."  
  
"Yes, Your Honour. My apologies." Turning back to Jones, she continued. "So, in your professional opinion, where did the victim die?"  
  
Jones stared straight at the defendant. "In my professional opinion, the victim died in the defendant's freezer."  
  
Jones' testimony went on for the rest of the day, going step by step through her entire process with all forensic evidence. Wilson finished with her at 4:30 in the afternoon.  
  
Ramses, checking the time called for adjournment until the following day at nine o'clock.  
  
  
  
Michael drove to Shirley's hotel, Kitt calling ahead to notify the Secret Service. Once there, he walked to the elevator, showed his credentials to an agent, and was permitted access. Again when he stepped off the elevator, on the 20th floor, Shirley and her escort guard the only occupants, Michael showed his ID once again. Finally he gained access to her suite.  
  
She rose from the couch as he walked through the door, took him in her arms and kissed him, her finger casually tracing the scar on his face. This did not bother him anymore, he knew it was her way of acknowledging his lifestyle, and as an endearment to him. He kissed her back hungrily.   
  
They broke apart, looking at each other. Smiling, eyes intense, Michael finally said, "I'm glad you're here."  
  
Leading him to the couch in the living room, she sat him down, walked to the wet bar and poured each of them two fingers of Glen Fiddich. She handed one to Michael, then sat cross legged on the other end of the couch, facing him. "I have to help you when I'm able to, Michael. Normally it's behind the scenes, but I felt this case needed a little more of a personal touch."  
  
Michael sipped at the single malt scotch, relaxed as the cool liquid warmed his insides. "I'm just worried about you. Miller is dangerous, and now you could end up being a target for him. Of course, he'd be a fool to try with all this security."  
  
"Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to me. As you say, with all this security, hell, I can't even go out to a restaurant without it being inspected first. Kind of takes the spontaneity out of an evening. But, they're here on the president's orders. He's like you in many ways, Michael. He's just not willing to take a chance on anything happening to me."  
  
Michael moved a little closer to her, placing his large hand on her knee, gently rubbing her calf, and up to her thigh. "Well, I can think of some other spontaneous actions we could do, than going out to dinner," he said with a sly smile. "Do they have good room service here?"  
  
Laughing, she grabbed his wrist, removing his hand from where it rested on her inner thigh. Standing up, she went to the kitchen, removing two plates from the oven. "I've already taken care of that. You know how I hate hotel food, so I had one of the agents fetch me the makings for duck l'orange. Shall we eat?"  
  
He went to the small refrigerator, finding a bottle of champagne breathing in it. Grabbing the bottle and two flutes he placed them on the table, pouring the sparkling drink. He sat opposite her, staring at her over the top of his glass. "You're a beautiful woman, Shirley, and I love you." Taking a breath he started again. "I want to start thinking about a future for us. A future for after you're out of government work, after I'm out of the Foundation."  
  
She stared at him in open amazement. They had never discussed this before. He was always adamant they take it one day at a time, never asking for more. For a year now, she had wanted more, but been afraid to push him. Realizing the pain he was in to cause him to open up to her like this, tears formed in her eyes. "I'd like that, Michael. Elections are next year, and if the president's not re-elected, then I'll be free. I'll move down to you, to Los Angeles. It would be nice, a future." Softly, with affection flowing from her words, she added, "I love you."  
  
Michael stood, walking around the table to her, and knelt beside her. Cupping her chin with his fingers, he kissed her, his tongue tenderly searching for hers. She responded in kind, their tongues doing a slow dance. Breaking his lips from hers, she saw a reflection of her teary eyes in his face, the moistness streaking his cheek. Slowly, he picked her up out of the chair, and she directed him to her bedroom.  
  
The clothes piled on the floor, their bodies entwined on top of the covers, hands roaming everywhere. Both knew it had been too long a wait. Too long apart from each other. They wanted this to last, but their bodies would have nothing to do with the patience of their minds. The rhythm was found, increasing in tempo, until it reached it's inevitable crescendo, neither wanting to let go of the other. They remained interlocked on the bed, softly talking, saying nothing at all. The need rose again in both of them, slower this time, more gentle. Loving. He paid attention to her responses, she to his. They were symbiotic, each feeling, knowing exactly what the other wanted and needed. Their rhythm remained slow, until the end neared again.  
  
Sitting at the table again, both wearing hotel robes, they ate their dinner, speaking of nothing but their love. The case could wait.  
  
  
  
The morning session started with Judge Ramses giving brief instructions to the spectators in the courtroom. The news of the hearing had spread, and the press were getting interested. Michael knew as the hearing went on, that more reporters would show each day.  
  
Ramses looked down at the defense table. Pointing to Corporal Jones, the Judge said, "Your witness, Mr. Snell."  
  
Snell stood, straightening the front of his robe. "Thank you, Your Honour. Corporal, yesterday you testified as to the cause of death. You remember?"  
  
Jones glared at him. "Of course I remember, Mr. Snell. It was only yesterday, after all, and I have a highly trained mind, just as you, I would hope."  
  
Mouth open in shock, Snell looked toward the judge, who was smiling. "I object to the badgering from this witness, Your Honour. Could you please instruct her to simply answer the questions."  
  
"I will instruct Corporal Jones to restrict her answers to strictly the necessity, and I will also instruct you, defense counsel, to refer to the witness as either the witness, or by rank and name. Not as 'her'"  
  
"I'm sorry, Your Honour." Turning back to the witness he said, "Corporal, did your autopsy ascertain if the body had been moved after death?"  
  
"Yes, counselor. As discussed in my testimony yesterday, the signs of lividity were prominent. Let me explain for you."  
  
"Please," Snell replied.  
  
"Lividity is when the blood pools into the lowest gravitational section of the body, after death. The heart stops pumping, the blood rests, gravity takes effect. This starts within moments of death. It is one way in which we estimate time of death on recently dead victims."  
  
"Was lividity an effective way to estimate time of death on this body?"  
  
"No. The victim had been dead for far too long."  
  
"Well, Corporal, if the victim had been dead for that long, then how do you know that she had not been moved. That the lividity had not just repositioned itself?"  
  
Shaking her head in frustration, Bloom County said with some irritation in her voice, "Mr. Snell, if the body had been moved after lividity began, then there would be what look like bruising on other parts of the body where blood had pooled. There were none, which means the body had not been moved. Which means, Sir, that the victim died in that freezer."  
  
"How exact of a science is the lividity test?"  
  
"It is one of the most precise tests available to us. I know of very few cases where the test has been deemed as wrong."  
  
"But you do know of some?" Snell asked hopefully. His inexperience in court was showing. Michael still wondered why the hell he was trying this case. It should have been turned over to a criminal defense attorney. Snell was corporate, and it showed.  
  
"Yes, I do know of some," Corporal Jones said exasperated. "But those are cases where the victim is freshly dead, and had been moved a lot. Either by paramedics, or by careless investigators, or by the defendant. That is not the case here. This body did not move since death!"  
  
Michael almost laughed out loud at the look on Snell's face, but withheld it. He sat through the rest of the cross-examination, an entire days worth, with Snell picking, and Jones, attacking back. Snell got nothing from her.  
  
  
During the lunch recess, Wilson approached Snell in the hallway outside the court room. "George, you're a damn good corporate litigator, but you must know you're out of your depth in this trial."  
  
"I know it. I tried to get myself excused from the case by the judge, but he wouldn't allow it, since I'm the lawyer my client wants to represent him. I don't understand Miller. He could afford any lawyer in the province, but he wants to keep me. I can do the job, once I get my sea legs, but dammit, I'm not doing him any favours in this hearing."  
  
"Have you thought that maybe there are ulterior motives for him wanting you?"  
  
"You mean that he'll use my incompetence during trial as a grounds for appeal? Yes, both myself and Ramses have debated the points of law on that. That's why I let the record show my request for withdrawal. Ramses thinks that should help halt that particular post conviction defense." They spoke for a few more minutes, neither offering settlement arrangements. They understood the rules of this game. No quarter would be asked, none given.  
  
  
  
In the morning, the Crown Attorney called her next witness. He rose from the prosecutors table, walked the short distance to the witness box, and pledged the truth. Jennifer Wilson, still not wearing the formal robes, this she wore only for full trials, wore another pant suit, minimal makeup and well maintained, easy hair style. She stood, approaching the witness stand.   
  
"For the record, could you please state your full name and occupation please?"  
  
"Sergeant Dean Anderson, Homicide Investigator with the Vancouver Police Service."  
  
"Thank you, Sergeant. You were called to the defendant's house earlier this month, correct?"  
  
He wore a rumpled suit, his hair in slight disarray, with large bags under his eyes. In addition to his presence at the Crown's table, he was still working on the case. The stress was showing it's effects. As he slumped in the not so comfortable chair, he replied, "Yes, I was."  
  
"And why were you called there?"  
  
"Mr. Michael Knight of the Foundation for Law And Government called my department to ask for assistance carrying out a search warrant."  
  
"FLAG is an American organization, is it not?"  
  
"Yes ma'am, I believe it is."  
  
"Weren't you curious how an American investigator acquired an B.C. warrant?"  
  
He sat straighter in his seat. They knew they were taking a risk with this line of questioning, but they had to preempt Snell's chance to damage them with these facts. To the court, it made no difference which judge's signature was on the warrant. Or at least it shouldn't. "Yes I was quite interested in the warrant. As soon as I arrived on scene, I requested visual confirmation of the warrant. Mr. Knight handed it to me."  
  
"And was that warrant valid?"  
  
"Yes it was. All information checked out on it. The evidence that had been obtained to that point was present, the correct date, address, everything. The judge's signature was at the bottom."  
  
"And what judge was that?"  
  
"The judge was Judge Ramses here," he said as he looked up at the judge behind his bench.  
  
"So you ascertained everything to be in order, in your professional opinion."  
  
Snell stood quickly. "Objection, Your Honour. We have not stipulated, nor heard evidence of this being a professional witness."  
  
Ramses stared at him in disbelief. "Are you questioning if Sergeant Anderson here is a professional Police Officer?"  
  
Wilson expected the defense lawyer to back down. She was surprised when he remained standing. "No, Your Honour. We stipulate to the witnesses profession as a Police Officer. But that does not make him a professional. The question asked him, 'in your professional opinion.' We do not know which profession is being referred to here, Your Honour."  
  
Wilson stared open mouthed at him. Regaining her composure she turned to Judge Ramses. "The Crown makes that this is a moot point, Your Honour. Defense counsel is well aware that we are referring to the witnesses professional opinion as a veteran police officer."  
  
Ramses stared down at her. "That's your best argument, Ms. Wilson? Objection sustained. Unless you want to prove to the court that the witness is in fact a professional, to testify as to professional opinions, which as you know counsel, has different meanings in a court of law, you will rephrase the question."  
  
Shaking her head subtly, obviously shaken by the rebuke, she continued. "Thank you, Your Honour. Sergeant Anderson, in your opinion as a veteran police officer, did you find the search warrant to be in order?"  
  
With a smile, looking over at Snell, Andy replied, "Yes Ma'am. The warrant, as far as I could surmise, was in perfect order. No problems with it at all."  
  
"And how many search warrants have you handled over your years on the force?"  
  
Smiling even more broadly now, he answered, "Thousands, I would say."  
  
Wilson walked back to her table, quickly looked up a form on her index card, grabbed it and gave it a glance over. "Would two thousand, three hundred forty eight sound right?"  
  
Every person in the court room could tell Anderson was almost ready to giggle he was smiling so much. "Yes ma'am. That sounds about dead on."  
  
"Good. Let's move on shall we? What happened after you examined Mr. Knight's search warrant."  
  
"Well, we talked for a while. Mr. Knight had already been in the house. He told us what we could expect to find."  
  
Snell stood again, his face looking puffy and red. "Objection, Your Honour," he almost yelled.  
  
Ramses, shaken from his daydream, yelled back, "No lawyer has permission to yell in my court room, Mr. Snell. Counsel, approach the bench. I know what this objection has to do with Mr Snell."  
  
The two opposing counsel walked side by side to the bench. Wilson had to stand on her toes to see over the top at the judge.  
  
"Your Honour," Snell began. "As you know, our entire defense for this hearing is to ascertain whether or not Mr. Knight entered my client's house legally. The witness has just testified that the police, and therefore the Crown, knew he had been in the house prior to the police search. That makes everything found by the police inadmissible."  
  
Wilson said quietly, "That's ridiculous, Your Honour. Mr. Knight had the warrant in his possession at the time he searched the defendant's house. So long as the warrant was received by him before he stepped into the house, the search is legal. We've been through this before."  
  
Ramses pondered a moment, then spoke. "Ms. Wilson, do you know for a fact that Mr. Knight had the warrant in his possession before he entered the house? Or did he get it after, then call the police?"  
  
Thinking quickly, she responded, "We can prove that Mr. Knight had the warrant prior to his search, Your Honour, and would be glad to with a rebuttal witness to Mr. Knight's testimony for the defense, but not until then if it's not necessary."  
  
Snell asked indignantly, "Who?!"  
  
"Yes, Ms. Wilson? I must say, I myself am curious. Who?"  
  
With a slight amount of sweat forming on her upper lip, she knew she had to answer. They had told her he was willing to testify. She just didn't know how. "An artificial intelligence. The voice of the Knight Industries Two Thousand. Kitt. Mr. Knight's car."  
  
Both men stared, jaws hanging. Both for different reasons.  
  
"A car, Your Honour?! How can a car testify?"  
  
Ramses shook his head slowly, disbelief straining his voice. "This car is capable of testifying, Mr. Snell. I just don't know if I can allow it. The information in that computer is highly classified, as are it's capabilities." Pausing for breath, a quick glance around the court room, he continued. "Okay, Ms. Wilson. If it becomes necessary, and only if so, will I allow you to put Kitt on the stand. Somehow. We'll work the details out at a later time. His testimony is to be held in closed court. Nothing is to be mentioned about the car, or it's testimony to the press, or anyone else. Is that understood?"  
  
"No, Your Honour," Snell said, confusion etching his words. "First, I would like to know how a car can testify, and second, if it is to testify, then why can we not discuss it?"  
  
Ramses smiled for the first time in the hearing. "That's easy, Mr. Snell. One, _I_ know the car can testify, and two, because I am placing a gag order on both of you effective immediately regarding the aforementioned issues. NOTHING comes out about it. Now, let's take a thirty minute recess to calm down." With that, he slammed his gavel down, jumped out of his seat, and was gone.  
  
  
Moments after Ramses disappeared behind his door, the bailiff caught Devon Miles' eye, requesting his presence. Miles excused himself from Bonnie and Michael, and exited the court room through the same door as the judge. The bailiff led him down a short corridor, and knocked on a door. Devon heard Ramses bark something unintelligible from behind. The bailiff opened the door and Devon walked through.   
  
Though small, the office was well appointed, an antique desk, hardwood floors with quilted rugs. A large bookcase lined one wall with the obligatory legal texts and journals. Devon noticed some of the classic authors as well. Dickens, Yeats, Tolstoy. He settled himself into one of the leather guest chairs facing the desk. A moment later, Ramses came out of an adjoining bathroom, his face grim.  
  
"Thanks for coming in, Devon."  
  
"You knew I would, Harold. What's on your mind?"  
  
"Kitt. Jennifer Wilson may want to put him on the stand. I thought you should know. You could probably get an injunction against it, if you wanted to, under the grounds of classification."  
  
Devon had, of course, known this was coming. "Yes, Harold, I probably could. And should. But, unfortunately I cannot. I spoke with Michael and Kitt both, and they have made their feelings very clear on this issue. I suppose in some ways I have to agree with their decision. You see, Harold, they were right. They are fighting for more than justice here. They're now fighting for their livelihoods as well. I won't interfere, as much as I would like to. All I can ask is that you do whatever you can to keep it from being a necessity at this point."  
  
"I understand, Devon. We've worked together for years, since the OSS days. If Kitt does testify, I've already told the lawyers there will be no press. Closed court, and they aren't allowed to discuss the issue with anyone. At this point, it's all I can do." Ramses gave his bookshelf a quizzical look. "But, I may be able to think of something."  
  
Devon left chambers, returning to the court room where Bonnie and Michael sat, quietly talking. Devon glanced down at them, and told them to follow him with his eyes. They stared at each other, concern etching their faces, as they stood and followed their boss. Devon walked through the main doors, down the large hallway to the stairs, and went down without turning to see if his employees were following. Bonnie and Michael hustled after him. They finally caught up to him on the sidewalk in front of the building.  
  
"We have a problem," Devon said as he stopped beside Kitt. Michael leaned against his partner, Bonnie sitting on the hood.  
  
"What's wrong, Devon?" Bonnie hadn't seen her boss this flustered in a long time.   
  
"The Crown Attorney, Jennifer Wilson, is going to try to put Kitt on the stand. Apparently to prove that Michael was in fact in possession of the search warrant when he broke into Miller's house."  
  
Kitt spoke before anyone else had the opportunity. "Devon, I informed Ms. Wilson of my intentions to help Michael with this case. Please, do not blame her. It is me you should be angry at."  
  
"I know, Kitt. You've placed me in a precarious position. According to the board of Director's, I am not permitted to allow you to testify. But I know your reasons all too well. Judge Ramses is going to try to circumvent the issue. I'm not sure how. All I ask is that you two abide by his decision."  
  
Michael looked down at his partner, then said, "You've got it, Devon."  
  
  
  
As they re-entered the court room, there was a noticeable tension in the air. The journalists all sat hunched forward, the sketch artists scribbling furiously. Devon and Bonnie sat in the second pew on the prosecution side while Michael moved up to the front to speak with Rotty.  
  
He sat beside her, leaning over so he could whisper into her ear. "What's going on?"  
  
She smiled, then said, "Snell is making an ass of himself, objecting at irregular intervals when there's nothing to object to. The judge is losing his patience and Wilson looks like she could boil an egg on her head she's so mad." Michael had to agree. Wilson's face was beet red as she tried to continue her questioning of Sergeant Anderson. Rotty leaned into him again, adding, "Everyone in here thinks Snell's a fool. Ya ask me, he's doing it on purpose. Sandbagging, and just trying to break Wilson's rhythm."  
  
Michael watched for a few minutes. Snell hadn't objected to anything since he had arrived and Wilson looked like she was starting to relax, getting her stride back in place.  
  
"Sergeant Anderson, when you entered the defendant's freezer during your search, what was the first thing you saw?"  
  
Snell stood slowly to his feet, uttering, "Objection, calls for speculation."  
  
Ramses jumped from his seat behind the bench, his voice cowing every person in the large room. "Sit down, Mr. Snell. There is no need for you to object to that question. It most assuredly does not call for speculation. If I hear one more unfounded objection from you, I'll have you held in contempt!" Ramses finally seated himself breathing heavily, glowering at the defense table.  
  
Snell remained unfazed. "Your Honour, you cannot hold me in contempt for doing the best possible job that I can for my client. You are fully aware that as defense counsel I have every right, nay every responsibility, to question all testimony brought forth by the Crown. This means objecting when I feel facts are being misrepresented by opposing counsel. I apologize if other lawyers do not do this, Your Honour, but I refuse to shirk my responsibilities." With the last sentence he sat, resting his hands calmly on the table in front of him. His face was a mask of nonchalance. Every other face in the room was openly aghast at this lawyer rebuking the judge.  
  
Ramses finally calmed enough to be able to speak. Michael was expecting another loud outburst. In a calm, yet strained voice, Ramses said, "Yes, Mr. Snell, you do have an obligation to your client. That obligation includes not being thrown into jail from being held in contempt of court, which I am sorely tempted to do. But, you raise an interesting point of law. Does the defense lawyer have the right to hold up proceedings that are meant to be quick and judicial? I think not. Does the defense lawyer have the right to raise unfounded objections? I know not. The next time you object to something, Mr. Snell, you'd better have a damn good reason. Your objection is overruled. Proceed, Ms. Wilson."  
  
Michael watched the rest of the days testimony, Wilson walking Andy through their discoveries step by step, until she finally felt satisfied and handed him to Snell. He asked all the same questions, not raising anything new, nor countermanding anything Wilson had gotten. The day was the prosecutors point. Michael realized then that a court battle really was a war without blood shed. Court was adjourned for the day.  
  
  
Michael was asked to meet in the investigation conference room. When he arrived, Bloom County, Andy, Rotty, and Wilson were waiting for him. Wilson was agitated and tired.  
  
"What the Hell kept you, Knight?"  
  
"Hello to you too, counselor. I had to speak to some people, if that's all right with you. Now, what do you need?" He was trying to keep his calm, but occasionally this woman rubbed him the wrong way.  
  
"Sorry, Michael. Long day. I've only got a couple more witnesses, then it'll be Snell's turn. I wanted to know what you're gonna say on the stand."  
  
"Jennifer, I'm going to answer his questions as truthfully and honestly as I can. I don't know what he's going to ask me, so I don't know what I'll say."  
  
Surprise in her eyes, Wilson said, "He hasn't discussed your testimony yet? What the hell is that man doing?"  
  
Without even thinking, Rotty said, "Sandbagging you, Jen."  
  
Turning on her, Wilson asked, "What do you mean?"  
  
Rotty explained as she had to Michael, concluding with, "He's no dummy. Everything he does is planned. If he hasn't discussed Michael's testimony with him, then he has a reason. My guess is he wants Michael treated as a hostile."  
  
Pondering the point, Wilson finally agreed. Michael left them with a promise to let them know if he was contacted by Snell. He went out to the street, and sank into Kitt's seat.  
  
"They are a rather uptight group of people, aren't they, Michael."  
  
"Yeah, Kitt. They most definitely are. They're also extremely good at what they do. It's nice to be working with them. Although..."  
  
"Yes, Michael?" Kitt prompted.  
  
"It's just that I always wondered what it would be like to work with Canadian police. They're definitely a little different than most US forces we've worked with, but they also seem to be a little more cautious. Like they don't want to take any risks. I could never work that way when I was on the force. Every day I had to take risks, both with my life, and with the cases I was on. I just don't know how they can do it."  
  
"Canadians all around are a more cautious people from what I have seen, Michael. Crime stats are lower than our cities, they have less traffic accidents, though they seem to have even more congested of traffic systems than we're used to. And, Michael, they're very friendly. Just today, I had a young man offering to clean my windows, and he wasn't looking for money."  
  
Michael laughed at the occasional bit of naivete left in his friend. "Yeah, Kitt, until he had cleaned your windows, then he would have been looking for five bucks."  
  
Kitt's voice had a note of hurt in it. "No, Michael. He did clean all of my windows, then left without asking for anything." A small hint of levity crept back into the electronic voice. "Although..."  
  
"Yeah?" Michael urged, realizing this was his partners form of payback.  
  
"You may want to inspect the left side windshield wiper. It seems the good samaritan left something there. It's been sending out a signal for twenty minutes now."  
  
Michael couldn't believe it. One of Miller's people had planted a transponder on his car. He stepped out of the car, retrieving the small black metal disc. Getting back in, he said, "Let's keep this for a little while, then send them on a nice red herring, eh, Kitt?"  
  
"Sounds like a good idea, Michael. Though you are definitely spending too much time with these Canadians when you start saying 'eh.'"  
  
Michael laughed as they drove into traffic.  
  
  
  
They drove for several hours, heading aimlessly, trying to get a track on their pursuers. Several times Kitt thought he had them on his scanners, but then they disappeared. Michael was getting tired and irritable, he would have preferred spending the night with Shirley, than wandering the mountainous countryside of British Columbia. They finally turned into a truck stop, Michael thinking food might help to raise his spirits. The thought hit him like a tidal wave.  
  
"Kitt, can you trace the frequency of the transponder?"  
  
"Yes, Michael. I can monitor it, but not follow a signal back to where it is being received."  
  
"We don't need that, buddy. I just realized we're going about this all wrong."  
  
"We are?" Kitt asked curiously. He could feel the excitement in his partner's voice, but his computer processors hadn't put the pieces together the same way as Michael had. "What are you thinking?"  
  
"We drop the transponder into one of the transports here, then follow the signal as far back as possible, and watch to see who else is there," Michael said proudly. Kitt was more than sceptical of his partners logic, but saw no other option. "I'll follow a driver out from the restaurant, then casually plant the transponder on his truck." Getting out of the car, Michael added, "Be back shortly, keep an eye on me, okay?"  
  
"Of course, Michael. Especially when one considers your proclivity towards trouble when frequenting establishments such as this."  
  
As Michael walked to the restaurant, he turned back with a smile on his face, saying, "Wise ass."  
  
In the restaurant, busy for one in the morning, Michael ordered a large coffee, and a chicken salad on white bread. Taking his order to the counter, he noticed a tall brusque man in cowboy boots, large shiny buckle, and dirty denim jacket, heading for the exit. Paying quickly, Michael caught up to him as they stepped into the parking lot.  
  
"Hi there, wonder if you could help me."  
  
Turning, the man wore a menacing frown, appraising Michael, who was a good three inches shorter. The frown slowly faded, "What can I do for you?"  
  
"I'm just trying to figure out how the heck I get back to Vancouver. Any idea?" They had continued walking to the truckers rig, a new Freightliner with full size sleeper with a large air dam over top, protecting the attached fifty three foot trailer from wind buffeting. The trailer was painted with a major auto manufacturers products all over it, the cab a deep metallic blue, with a mural of a horse ranch behind the doors.  
  
Laughing, the trucker said in his deep gravelly voice, "Damn, man. You ain't supposed to ask for directions. Must be big city folk, eh?"  
  
Chagrined at the response, Michael nodded and said, "Yeah, can you help me?"  
  
"Sure, partner. I'm heading there now, so if you want, you can just stay on my back door all the way, so long as you don't mind rolling at one twenty."  
  
Shocked, Michael exclaimed, "'Hundred twenty miles an hour? You don't honestly drive your rig that fast?"  
  
A huge chuckle rumbled up from the truckers belly, spilling forth into what could only be described as a guffaw. "Oh shit, you must be a Yank. No man, one twenty kilometers an hour, not miles."  
  
Seeing a small recessed area above the fuel tank, Michael slipped the transceiver into place while the driver climbed into his rig. "Thanks," said Michael, "But that's a little fast for me. I'll just check my map again."  
  
Still chuckling at the dumb Yank, the driver looked down from his seat and said, "Suit yourself. Have a good one." With that, the door closed and the engine started in a loud roar.  
  
Michael walked back to Kitt and slipped into his seat. "Showtime, buddy. Let's see what happens. We'll leave when the signal starts to get weak."  
  
"Alright, Michael, but I am rather dubious of the effectiveness of this ploy. After all, we haven't picked up anyone on our scanners, and the range of that transponder, as small as it is, cannot be too great. I would have thought we would have seen something by now."  
  
"So what are you thinking, Kitt?"  
  
"That perhaps this entire episode has just been a ploy to get us out of the way for a while, maybe so Miller, or one of his people can do something else."  
  
"Shit. Okay, Kitt, let's start calling everyone associated with the case on our side, roust them from bed if you have to, but let's make sure they're safe. In the meantime, we'll follow that transponder just in case."  
  
Twenty minutes later, as they drove slowly back towards Vancouver, in the wake of the truck, Kitt spoke. "All parties have been contacted with nothing out of the usual to report, except Ms. Wilson, who had a near miss with a vehicular accident. Apparently, a car swerved across four lanes and sideswiped her. If she wouldn't have seen it coming and turned and accelerated to avoid the oncoming car, it would have been a head on collision. The police arrested the other driver who is being held for questioning. Ms. Wilson is unharmed."  
  
Shaking his head, Michael knew Kitt was right, but couldn't let go of the hope someone would show up for the transponder. "Okay, Kitt. You were right, but let's keep the transponder in sight, just in case."  
  
"Of course, Michael. Something's happening. Two vehicles are approaching the transport at high velocity from a sideroad. It appears, Michael, that we were both correct."  
  
Pushing the 'pursuit' button, Michael yelled, "Let's get these guys, Kitt!"  
  
They sped along the highway, breaching 150 miles per hour, when the two cars became visible as they pulled up alongside the transport. Michael saw the barrels of guns pop out through the windows. The transport swerved into one of the cars, causing it to veer off the road onto the shoulder. The driver quickly regained control, and they gained on the large truck again.  
  
"Let's shake things up, Kitt. Hit the sirens and lights. Make sure there's no blue lights, they don't use them up here." The wailing of multiple police sirens assaulted Michael's ears, and the night sky turned shades of red and white. The two cars immediately sped ahead of the transport, and Michael and Kitt pursued.  
  
"Michael, they're communicating with radios."  
  
"Okay, figure out which car has the leader in it, and we'll focus on it."  
  
"The lead car, a blue Ford Taurus sedan, has what appears to be the leader in it Michael."  
  
"Okay, partner, is it safe to microwave jam his brakes up?"  
  
"Yes, Michael, the road is straight for the next six miles, or ten kilometers."  
  
"Hit it, Kitt. We can't worry about the other car, let's get these guys while we can. And radio for backup. Christ, do they even have a State, or Provincial police out here?"  
  
"As far as I know, Michael, these roads are patrolled by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."  
  
"Okay, call them." The Taurus had skidded to a halt in front of them. Four men jumped out and started firing their weapons at Michael and Kitt. Kitt made sure the angle he stopped at would not allow any ricochets to bounce back into the gunmen. When the firing finally stopped, Michael drove towards the men who scrambled. He popped the T roof, and jumped out, tackling two of them to the ground, while Kitt went after the other two. He landed on top of them, smashing one face into the ground with his weight, causing the shooter to lose consciousness. The other stood quickly, swinging a large fist at Michael's head. The punch was easily blocked, and Michael swung his right leg up to the left, swinging it around into his opponents right temple. Both men were on the ground, unmoving. He looked over to Kitt to see how his partner had faired. He had one of his targets pinned under the prow of the car, while the others right arm was stuck in a window. He was about to laugh when the transport driver arrived, quickly followed by three police cars.  
  
  
Before Judge Ramses could sit in his seat after entering the court room, Jennifer Wilson stood. "Your Honour, the Crown makes motion to have the defendant's bond revoked, and he be remanded into custody immediately."  
  
Ramses sat stiffly, knowing this would be a long day. "On what grounds, counselor?"  
  
Wilson walked to the podium and began her recital of the previous nights activities, concluding with, "Mr. Knight and two detectives interrogated the suspects, and they spoke clearly of Mr. Miller's involvement through one of his underlings, Your Honour. The defendant obviously believed he could carry out these attacks, and not get caught. After all, if we were dead, who would be left to testify?"  
  
Throughout her story, Snell had glared at Miller. He now stood. "If it please the court, I would like to argue the point?" Getting a curt nod from Ramses, Snell went on, "The evidence tying my client to last night's actions is tenable at best. Ms. Wilson is just seeking revenge for her loss in the bail hearing. I am of course, sorry to hear about her close call, and Mr. Knight's, but my client cannot be held accountable for the actions people who know him take. My client paid an unreasonable bail amount, and it would be criminal to revoke the little freedom he has at this point, Your Honour."  
  
Ramses sat like a statue for several long minutes, finally looking from one lawyer to the other. "Ms. Wilson, are you prepared to continue the case, or do you need a recess for a couple days?"  
  
Shocked, Wilson said, "I'm fine, Your Honour, just tired today. But, we are ready to proceed."  
  
"Very well. Mr. Miller, stand up please." Miller remained obstinately in his seat, not even looking at the judge while Snell grabbed futilely at his arm, trying to pull him up. Miller shook the hand away. "Get on your feet!" Ramses barked. When Miller still remained steadfast in his seat, Ramses yelled at the bailiff to stand the defendant up.   
  
When the bailiff grabbed him roughly by the arm and started to pull, Miller spun, knowing he would go back to prison otherwise, swinging his fist into the bailiff's temple. He fell in a heap to the floor, and Miller pushed past him, trying to get to the door leading to the judge's chambers. Michael watched the whole thing transpire and was ready. He leapt the railing, running at full speed, tackling Miller from behind at the knees. They went down hard, Michael cracking his skull on the wall of the judges bench, Miller sliding into the wall beside the door. Before either man could get to his feet, three bailiffs entered hearing the commotion, and held both men to the floor. Ramses gave a few curt orders and Michael was led out the door for medical attention to the cut on the back of his head, Miller was led back to the defense table, a guard on each side.  
  
Ramses' face was red with anger, grey eyes glaring coldly at Miller. "Mr. Snell, since you seem to have no control over your client, he will be brought to court in handcuffs and leg irons, which will not be removed while here. He is also to be remanded back into the custody of the provincial correctional facility until the end of his trial. Bail will not be refunded. Call the two million he lost payment for his show of disrespect for this court, and to me. Bailiffs, please fit the defendant with his irons."  
  
Snell could not believe what was happening to him. He stood, his eyes almost watering. He knew Miller was unpredictable, but he didn't think his client was this stupid. "Your Honour, I apologize for my clients behaviour, but I object strenuously to him being forced to wear shackles during his court appearances. If and when this case goes before a jury, those shackles will be damningly prejudicial against Mr. Miller."  
  
"Your client should have thought of that before trying to escape, Mr. Snell. Your objection is noted, and overruled." He looked over to the defendant, saw the cuffs and hobbles attached, a guard on each side behind him and said, "Ms. Wilson, sorry for the delay. Are you ready to proceed?"  
  
"Yes, Your Honour." She called her next witness, a forensic expert on fingerprints. After the excitement, the testimony seemed exceptionally boring to all those present. At 12:15, she was done with him, and Ramses called for a lunch recess. Miller was led to a holding cell, Wilson went to check on Michael.  
  
After lunch, Michael sitting again in the front pew, Snell tried to swing the testimony to his side. He thrust, the witness parried. It was another day for the prosecution.  
  
  
Michael let Kitt drive as they wound their way through the city streets from the Court House to Shirley's hotel. Michael was unusually quiet, with Kitt trying to lighten the mood by telling bad jokes. Michael's face never even cracked.  
  
As they pulled up to the front entrance, Kitt said, "Michael, you could not have anticipated Mr. Miller's actions. You responded quickly and efficiently, and no one but you was hurt. I don't understand why you are so dejected about it."  
  
Michael looked down at the voice modulator, as he always did when Kitt caught him off guard and spoke the same thoughts he was having. "You know me so well, partner. But I wasn't quick enough. If that bailiff had had a gun, God knows what Miller would have done. I can't get that thought out of my head. I just keep on seeing Ramses and Wilson, blood pouring from gunshot wounds, Miller waving the gun in the air, then disappearing through that door."  
  
Kitt, with sadness in his voice replied, "But that didn't happen. You stopped him from escaping, saving who knows how many lives, once again with no thought of your own well being. It's who you are, Michael. It's why I respect you."  
  
Smiling at long last, Michael said, "Thanks, Kitt. It's nice to know that I can always talk to you, that you're always here for me. Knowing my thoughts as well as you do. Thank you."  
  
As Michael stepped out of the car, he heard Kitt say, "You're welcome, Michael. I'll always be here for you." Michael only hoped it would be true.  
  
Entering the suite, he stepped into the loving concerned embrace of Shirley. They ate a dinner of room service, then exhausted, he collapsed into the bed and slept fitfully, visions of blood and court rooms interrupting his normal deep sleep while Shirley maintained a vigil beside him, slowly stroking his hair.  
  
  
Michael sat uncomfortably in the witness chair. Jennifer Wilson had rested the Crown's case the Friday before, and the entire investigation team had spent the weekend labouring over the case. They were all tired and cranky. Now, near exhaustion, Michael found himself losing patience with the defense lawyer.  
  
"Mr. Knight, is the Foundation for Law And Government a recognized law enforcement agency?"  
  
"No," Michael said tersely.  
  
"Could FLAG be characterized as a vigilante organization?"  
  
This question was expected, and a proper answer had been conjured. Instead of using it, Michael spat, "If you're an idiot, sure!"  
  
Unfazed, Snell continued. "So you would characterize your Foundation as a vigilante organization."  
  
Sighing, regaining his composure, Michael said, "No. At FLAG we work in conjunction with local law enforcement agencies helping individuals that are in trouble."  
  
"Individuals like the victim, Sylvia Twinley?"  
  
"People exactly like Sylvia," Michael said flatly.  
  
Striding close to the witness box, Snell seemed to contemplate this answer. "So, you received a request to help Ms. Twinley?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And when was that, Mr. Knight?"  
  
"Three weeks before her body was found in your clients freezer," Michael said with venom.  
  
Snell turned to the judge. "Move to strike, Your Honour, as unresponsive."  
  
Ramses looked between Michael and Snell, then replied, "Overruled, it seemed quite responsive to me."  
  
Scowling, Snell continued. "And in that three weeks, what were your activities?"  
  
Michael sat straighter and glanced at Wilson. Turning back to Snell, he said, "It took me a week to get up here. I was in the middle of a case in Texas I had to close first, then drove here. Upon arriving, I tried to contact Sylvia, but was unable to. I then started investigating."  
  
"And when you couldn't contact your client, you immediately focussed on Mr. Miller?"  
  
"Not immediately. It took some time to uncover his involvement in her life. He had hidden his actions rather well."  
  
"How long?"  
  
"How long did it take to uncover your clients illegal actions that caused Sylvia's death?" Michael said with a smirk.  
  
"Move to strike, unresponsive," Snell said to Ramses.  
  
"Sustained. Mr. Knight, please answer only the question you are asked. Mr. Snell, it would help if you asked more direct questions."  
  
"Thank you, Your Honour, I'll try. Mr. Knight, how long did it take you to find my clients involvement with Ms. Twinley?"  
  
"Two days."  
  
"And could you describe to the court how you went about that?"  
  
Wilson, who had been sitting quietly stood now. "Objection, Your Honour. I question the relevance of this question, and the infringement upon topics that are supposed to be closed to public hearing."  
  
Waving the two lawyers forward, Ramses said, "Sidebar, counsel."  
  
Snell and Wilson stepped under the judge's bench and started at a low whisper.   
  
"Your Honour," began Snell, "the defense has a right to question the steps that lead to my clients arrest, and it all begins with Mr. Knight's purported innocent investigation of Mr. Miller."  
  
Wilson rebutted with, "Defense counsel is strictly trying to divulge the classified information that has formerly been deemed off limits by this court, Your Honour. Let the defense go on a different fishing expedition."  
  
Ramses studied the pair of lawyers, then decided. "Your objection is overruled, for now. Mr. Snell, I warn you to not try prying anything out about the Knight Industries Two Thousand. Ms. Wilson, you will just have to hope that Mr. Knight can answer these questions without inferring his partners abilities."  
  
The lawyers retook their positions and Snell said, "Please answer the question, Mr. Knight."  
  
Nodding, Michael explained his investigation. "I knew where Sylvia lived, and I spoke to several other tenants in the building. A couple of them gave me some information which I ran through some computer data banks, and came up with a few names. I looked them up in some criminal databases, and found some ties to the defendant. I started looking into his activities over the last several years, and noticed his meteoric rise in wealth and social status. Everything seemed legitimate on the surface, but with some digging, his dirty laundry was found."  
  
"And what was this supposed 'dirty laundry,' Mr. Knight?"  
  
Smiling, Michael said, "You don't really want that brought into evidence, do you, Mr. Snell?"  
  
With a frown, Snell said, "Okay, so what were your actions on the day of the search warrant?"  
  
"I woke up at seven o'clock, and had a wonderful breakfast at the Village Cafe, reading all of the reports I had obtained on Mr. Miller. I gathered all of the evidence I had, and sent it to Judge Ramses with a request for a search warrant. At two thirty in the afternoon, I received the copy of the warrant that you saw. Once I had it, I searched the house, found the drugs, and the body, and contacted the police to do a full search of the premises."  
  
"But. Mr. Knight, how does the court know that you waited until the search warrant was delivered before you conducted your search?"  
  
Michael had thought of the only good answer he could come up with for this question. "Because, Mr. Snell, I am under oath to tell you the truth, and because I'm not a liar."  
  
"But that's only your word, Mr. Knight. I'm sure you're well aware of how many people lie in that seat you're sitting in."  
  
"Yes, I am, Mr. Snell. Just as I am sure you're aware of the penalties for a lawyer putting on a witness that he believes will lie. I believe the term is suborning perjury?" It was a wonderful check and mate move on Michael's part, and everyone in the court room knew it, including the judge. Snell stood for a moment, his mouth hung limply.  
  
Ramses looked down at him and said, "Counsel, you haven't suborned perjury in my court have you?" There was a trace of a smile in his tone.  
  
"Of course not, Your Honour. I haven't spoken to the witness to know whether or not he would lie, therefor I could not have known what his testimony would be, true or false."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Snell, but you obviously expected the witness to lie about this fact, and that in and of itself could be considered subbornment. Now, how do you plan to rectify this problem?"  
  
Knowing he had lost, Snell walked back to his table and took his seat. "I have no more questions at this time, Your Honour."  
  
"Good. Ms. Wilson?"  
  
Wilson stood, her face glowing with victory. "Nothing for the witness, Your Honour."  
  
Looking to Michael, Ramses said, "You're excused, Mr. Knight. Mr. Snell, you may call your next witness."  
  
Snell was undecided. He had lost with Knight, and the next witness was one of Miller's bodyguards who had overheard Michael telling Anderson about the hidden freezer. His testimony would be useless now. "Defense rests," was all he could say. He couldn't believe he had been outmaneuvered by this vigilante. He was furious.  
  
"Rebuttal witness, Ms. Wilson?"  
  
Smiling fully now, Wilson said, "None are needed, Your Honour."  
  
"Very well. The Crown has shown substantial probable cause. Mr. Miller will be held over for trial. Meet in my chambers on Wednesday this week, and we'll schedule it. This court is adjourned until the trial." With that, Ramses was up and out of his chair before the bailiff could respond.  
  
As Miller was being led away from the defense table, he glared at Snell and spat, "You fucked up big time, didn't you! You'd better think up something to get me the fuck out of this, or you can kiss your little daughter goodbye. She'll spend her best days working for me." Snell stared coldly at his back as Miller shuffled away. 


End file.
